


Shards of Living Glass

by the_shy_shrimp



Series: Shattered Memory [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Actually they're both brats, Angst, Because this is not that kind of fic, Bilbo is So Done, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Brooding, Círdan cares he just won't admit it, Death Threats, Dissociation, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Especially Elrond, Everyone Needs A Hug, Execution, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Flashbacks, Flower metaphors, Glorfindel is a horny bastard, Gratuitous Discussions on Horse Genetics, Grief/Mourning, Grumpy Old Men, Healer Elrond, Horses, Hurt/Comfort, Maglor is a Little Ball of Angst, Maglor is a brat, Maglor is everyone's dad, Maglor reacts to Maiar like cats react to water, Memory Loss, Minor gaslighting, Near Death Experiences, Nightmares, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Panic Attacks, Paralysis, Platonic Bed-Sharing?, Platonic Cuddling, Poorly Planned Family Vacations, Sensory Deprivation, Sharing a Bed, Sleep Walking, Songs of Power, Therapeutic Chess Games, all the feels, all the tears, broken Maglor, but like platonically - Freeform, but not a lot, but only partially, fading, hair braiding!, hissssssss, if it ain't broke break it - Freeform, mostly - Freeform, yeah that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 52,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27509866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_shy_shrimp/pseuds/the_shy_shrimp
Summary: Bilbo Baggins wants to do something special to repay Maglor for helping him with his writing over the years he's spent retired in Rivendell. Unfortunately, the elf in question is a little hesitant to cooperate, once he knows what his little hobbit friend wants to do. Not that his request is unreasonable, not in the slightest, but Maglor has a rather complex relationship with his memories, and isn't quite sure how he feels about having them recorded for posterity.Still, if it makes the halfling happy...A continuation of 'Return to Life', this story is mainly going to be little snippets and vignettes of Maglor's new life in Imladris, mostly out of order and mostly unrelated.
Series: Shattered Memory [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2010511
Comments: 74
Kudos: 126





	1. New Endings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I suppose this can be read as a standalone piece, I think it will make much more sense if you read 'Return to Life' before starting this one, so I would highly recommend doing that.

“Master Baggins, I do not know if you are really certain of all that you are asking of me.”

The halfling glances back at me sheepishly, stammering as he rushes to respond.

“Well, well… well you don’t have to if you don’t want to, I suppose. I just thought I’d make the offer, since I’m almost finished with my book, and, and, you’ve done so much to help me, and, and all…”

I sigh, considering again his request. It isn’t outlandish, all things considered. In fact, it really is quite a kind offer, although perhaps time consuming and rather without a point.

“You do realize that my memory, especially these days, is hazy at best, correct?”

“Yes, yes, I’m quite aware. I’m getting up in years too, you know. Not nearly as far as you, but you get the point.”

I sigh again, shaking my head. He’s right, and I know it. Part of me wants to tell him not to bother, to spend his last years doing something more fulfilling. But… if it makes the halfling happy… Maybe I can humor him. It seems almost cruel to deny him this small thing, and I have been far crueler in my life than anyone ever should be. I pinch the bridge of my nose with my one remaining hand and mutter a string of frustrated words, far older even than my companion’s very culture, before finally looking up at him where he sits across the table from me.

“Very well. I suppose if that is what you truly want.”

“Nothing would bring me greater joy.”

I cannot stop myself from chuckling at the utter reverence in his voice.

“Bilbo Baggins… you do me far more honor than I will ever deserve.”

“Well I think you deserve it. You’ve done plenty of honorable things.”

“I was a murderer and a war criminal.”

There is venom in my voice as I throw back the remainder of the tea in my cup. I know what it is he’ll say next. Something about me raising two young boys I could have easily just left for dead and thus robbing middle earth of one of the greatest healers ever to live and the foundations of a great line of kings… He does so every time our topic of conversation turns to my past. It gets very old, very quickly.

“Well… maybe. Maybe you were. But that isn’t who you are anymore, remember? And that isn’t what I want to hear about anyway. You’ve already written that story, there’s no point in doing it again, right? I want to document your new life.”

“Ah, so instead of Maglor the war criminal, you want to write the story of Maglor the cripple. I pity your readers.”

“Hey now!”

The hobbit glares at me across the table, refilling my cup from the pot that sits between us. He gives me a wry look before speaking again.

“You best mind your manners, or I’ve half a mind to tell Elrond you’re cross and in need of a nap!”

I raise my hands in mock surrender, shaking my head with an obvious eye roll. I cannot keep myself from laughing, though. It’s become almost a game, over the years, for us to accuse each other of being cranky old men in need of a nap. Every time he is the one pointing fingers, Bilbo threatens to get Elrond involved. He hasn’t once done it, that I remember, although much like the rest of my life, my memory too is beginning to wither. At the very least, our banter keeps us civil. Or rather, it keeps me civil.

“Fine, fine, you win. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“See, that isn’t so hard, now is it?”

He grins victoriously, setting his quill and a freshly bound set of blank pages out on the table. I think I can still smell the glue holding it together.

“I’ve a mind to have the final copy printed on much finer materials…”

He hums, seeing me eye the book, which in my opinion is already far too fine.

“Embossed leather cover… illustrations in the margins… gold leaf edging on the paper…”

Far, far too fine. I roll my eyes again.

“You know I cannot make any promises that what I tell you will be in any order, whatsoever.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I’ll just ask Elrond to put everything in order once I’m finished writing it down. After all, your bad memory was one of the first things he warned me about when I first asked to meet with you.”

I give him a sidelong glance.

“Now, if he had mentioned what an absolute prick you are, I might have reconsidered—”

“Hey!”

“Everything alright in here?”

Both Bilbo and I turn to stare at the now suddenly open door, where Elrond stands, one eyebrow raised and an expression that stands halfway between bemused and concerned shaping his features. Even though I’ve already risen halfway out of my chair, pointing a finger accusingly in my friend’s direction, the halfling cannot stop his giggling as he turns to my son.

“Everything is fine! We’re just discussing a new project.”

“Oh really? I thought for sure we were going to have another kinslaying on our hands, with the racket coming from this room.”

I wince. Even though I’ve long moved past that part of my life, the joke still makes my chest ache. Glancing over at Elrond shows me that I’ve become far too expressive with my inner struggles, as any and all humor is instantly drained from his face, leaving him looking shocked and pale.

“I… apologize, that was in poor taste.”

I wave off his muttered apology as I return to my seat. At least his thoughtless humor served to sober my temper, much like an icy water trough clears a drunkards faculties, and I no longer feel inclined to toss Bilbo off the balcony for his jabs. Still, the uncomfortable silence between the three of us drags on for far longer than it should.

“Well… you know where to find me if you need anything… behave you two.”

He steps out, masking his discomfort with a smirk. I sigh heavily the minute the door clicks shut.

“Sorry, that was largely my fault, wasn’t it?”

I look up at Bilbo, and he does seem fairly sincere in his apology. It almost makes me feel a bit bad for wanting to throw him off the balcony. Almost.

“We can start tomorrow if you’d rather wait…”

There is that sheepish tone again. I snort, and allow a smirk to creep in.

“My dear Bilbo, it will take more than a poorly timed kinslaying joke to ruin my whole day. And, frankly, it may be in your best interests to start now before I have time to change my mind.”

His grin banishes any negative feelings leftover between us.

“Right! So, where shall we start, hm? You’ve already told me about what you remember from when you first arrived here. Maybe start right after?”

I sigh again, deep in thought. Unfortunately, there is very little for me to tell about that time. According to Elrond, I spent much of that time asleep, and considering I remember practically nothing of those few months immediately after he amputated my hand, I really have no way to refute his claim. Not that it matters much anyway, but I suppose I can share the few things I do recall.

“I fear that will be a remarkably short story.”

“Well… just do your best. I can always add creative embellishments later.”

“Posthumously?”

“Posthumously.”

“That assumes you outlive me, which I am going to just say right now, is entirely possible. In fact, I’ve been considering taking a swan dive off the top of the falls this afternoon.”

“Frankly, Maglor, you are the worst.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“How about you tell me what happened after your hand was cut off instead.”

“Bilbo Baggins… your persistence will be the death of me, I swear.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

I glare at him, but there is no malice in it. Since the halfling’s arrival, the constant loneliness I’ve felt for so long has all but disappeared. Elrond is kind, and does everything in his power to see me safe and taken care of, but he still treats me as though I am made of glass. Having someone to complain to and banter with in the afternoons without fear of being taken too seriously… it has been good for me, and in truth I wouldn’t trade this hobbit for the world.

Sometimes, when the reminders of his mortality appear without warning, it fills my soul with sorrow.

“Very well. Although do not forget what I said before about my memory being bad. I still fear you will be sorely disappointed.”

“Oh, just shut up and start talking already.”

“I do believe those two requests are in direct conflict with each other.”

“Cheeky elf.”

I smirk as he wets his quill in the inkpot, clearly eager to begin. I shake my head, but eventually sigh and begin my tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maglor and Bilbo are those two old dudes in the retirement home that throw false teeth at each other and have wheelchair races in the hallway and are just generally menaces to society, change my mind.
> 
> Also, if there are any specific scenes or topics you want to see written as part of this pic, please do let me know in the comments, or send me a note on tumblr! I have some ideas for what I want to write here, but I'm always open to suggestions!


	2. Old Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor remembers what happened after he made his choice on the cliff, and hugs his son for the first time in a very, very long time.

It is dark.

Irmo said that it would be, and he did not lie, although the darkness is not nearly as suffocating and all-consuming as it once felt. I myself feel lighter, freer than I did before, and I think that makes the inky blackness just that much more tolerable. It helps, of course, to have my companions with me, the three faintly-glowing deer who have followed me through my dreams since the beginning.

As I pass deeper into the shadowed pines, the whispered growling of beasts great and terrible grows to considerable volumes. In fact, there are many times that I think I may be hearing voices instead of carnal roars.

_“… all we can. It…”_

_“…make it through the night.”_

I feel familiarity in those voices, and Memory chuffs warm air into my hand and nudges at it from behind me.

_“That is your son!”_

His voice rings joyously in my head, and for a moment I wonder if it is Hope that speaks instead. I smile, taking a full breath of the chilly night air, and I feel even lighter. I feel whole, like something I have been missing for far too long has been returned to me.

_“… has been sleeping with him again.”_

This voice is less familiar, but it still feels like I know it. The tone of it is… darker, somber almost.

_“You know what…”_

_“… die soon.”_

_“They always do.”_

Dread sinks into my chest. Die soon? No, that isn’t right. I’ve chosen life! I want to live. I want to hold my son in my arms, grown though he may be, and tell him I will never leave him again, that I love him and his brother and that I only sent them away because I wanted them to be safe. I walk faster, worried I may never get the chance if I allow myself to tarry. The creatures behind me must trot to keep up.

I breathe fast and heavy, as though I am sprinting, but I feel rather like I am trying to run through molasses. No matter how much energy I spend on propelling myself forward, I cannot seem to move any faster. In fact, the harder I try, the slower I seem to go, until I blink and find myself face-down in the loamy earth. Even drawing breath is nearly too much, and I gasp uselessly in the dirt. When I lift my head, Hope, Love, and Memory are nowhere to be seen. The dread is replaced by cold, raw panic that grips me like a vice.

_“Breathe. Breathe, Maglor. Please.”_

I do not know where the voice comes from, but I know that it is Elrond’s, and it sounds more desperate than I’ve heard it before. How many times has he said those exact words to me? Not enough, clearly, for he keeps saying them, even in my feverish dreams, oh so far away from him.

_“Come on, you know how this works. Take a breath for me.”_

I try, but I end up with a mouthful of dirt.

_“Again.”_

I have enough intelligence to turn my head this time, and end up with less dirt in my mouth.

_“Keep going.”_

It’s far from easy, but I try. Without my friends, the darkness is crushing me, threatening to consume everything I—everything _Elrond_ has worked for. I won’t disappoint my son yet again.

I peel myself off the ground, standing on legs that threaten to buckle even under my relatively negligible weight. I have to keep going. I cannot let these shadows win. I know that, if I stop now, I will be devoured by the creatures that lurk in the darkness of the pines. I will not give up, not now, not ever.

I take a step.

It feels like the most agonizing thing I’ve ever done, and I nearly end up back in the dirt, but through my own sheer willpower, I remain upright. I lift my arm to brace against the nearest tree, and am shocked when my hand passes right through the bark, like it isn’t even there. Again, I nearly fall, but I refuse to be so vulnerable again.

I take another step.

Somehow, it is even more painful than the first. I refuse to let it stop me. I have endured worse, or at least I tell myself I have. At the moment, the burn of the Silmaril seems distant and cold, like it happened in a dream, or I only imagined it. Right now, all I can think of is how much it hurts, dragging myself through this darkness. My entire body aches, like I’m being crushed by shards of glass that dig into my skin and cut me open as the pressure builds.

_“Just a bit further.”_

The voice is louder. Perhaps closer? I am panting, still struggling to draw breath at all, but I am moving. Slowly, I am moving. I press onward, step after step, sometimes crawling on all fours when keeping upright proves too difficult, but I refuse to be stopped now. I know what lurks in this forest, and I know what awaits me on the other side.

_“Maglor, I know you can hear me.”_

It sounds like a whisper in my ear, impossible to drown out, despite the snarls of the beasts in the darkness.

_“I need you to come back to us.”_

I… can’t.

Every ounce of strength is drained from my body, and I fall, but there is no collision with the earth as I expect. No, instead I continue falling, as I have in dreams before, through the ground and beyond, through a limitless expanse of colored ink and stars. The fall is… slow, for lack of a better word. My journey feels endless, and I fear I am lost forever in this vast sea of bright clouds and shimmering lights, paralyzed and drifting aimlessly among them for eternity.

I have no way of knowing how long I have been like this, wandering aimlessly in dreams. It all starts to blend together, one moment indistinguishable from the next, all identifying features blotted out by the apathetic weightlessness permeating every fiber of my being. I have to wonder if I will ever escape this place… 

Out of nowhere, a sensation much like that of falling through thin ice into a frigid lake hits me, making me gasp and sputter. My vision fails me, and I feel lost, unable to move and unable to see. I am cold, very cold. My heart hammers away in my chest, fear fueling its rapid and erratic beats. I try to scream, but no sound passes my lips. I feel like I am being ripped apart, torn to shreds and scattered in pieces to the four corners of Arda. This is it. This must be the end, this must be what it feels like to be unmade. I have failed. I have failed. I have—

Everything goes still.

The only sounds are the rushing of blood in my ears and my own ragged breath. Slowly, the chill dissipates to be replaced with soft warmth that cradles me like a mother’s arms. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, the same voice that always follows me whispers softly.

_“Breathe, Maglor. Please breathe for me.”_

And I do, regardless of whether the voice is real. As I calm, so too does my frantic heart, and I can finally hear again. It is quiet, with only the rustling of leaves and the distant rushing of water to be heard. I am comfortable. Achy and stiff, but relatively comfortable besides. I try to move my hand, but something holds it fast, or perhaps I am simply too weak even to manage that.

Opening my eyes takes more effort than I would have imagined, but the sight that greets me warms my whole being.

Elrond perches precariously on the edge of a chair beside my bed, his hand holding mine in a death grip, and his head resting beside me on the mattress. He is fast asleep, snoring quietly with each breath. I frown, noticing the prominent dark circles under his eyes. I hate to say it, but it makes him look so much older. He’s exhausted, so much so that his eyes are shut tight as he slumbers.

I turn my hand in his, twisting until I can hold him in return. I don’t want to wake him, but it seems my weak attempt at squeezing his hand is enough to rouse him. He blinks blearily, looking around the room before his gaze settles on me. A small smile is all I can manage, but it is enough.

_“Maglor?”_

I quietly nod.

He sighs in relief, and I can practically see the tension leaving his body as he does. A smile to match my own creeps in, and he squeezes my hand as he brushes a stray lock of greasy hair out of my face.

_“We almost lost you.”_

“I know.”

My voice is hoarse with disuse, and I have to wonder just how long I slept.

_“Maglor I was so scared…”_

For once it is Elrond with tears in his eyes, his voice cracking at the end of his words. There is no room for thought as I reach for him, dragging him down to me and just holding him in the tightest embrace I can manage. It feels incomplete, being able to only hold him with one arm, but I hardly care as to why the one burned by the Silmaril will not respond to me. All that matters now is comforting my son.

“I know, Elrond, I know.”

He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling me up and into his arms, and we stay there, holding each other, for entirely too long and not long enough. He weeps even more when I tell him I love him, when I say I’ve missed him, when I apologize for not knowing him, for not being able to remember. By the end, we are both a mess of tears and snot. It hardly matters, though.

After we’ve both been quiet for a while, Elrond whispers a meek apology in my ear.

_“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… I didn’t know any other way.”_

I frown but squeeze him tighter.

“Elrond, what are you talking about?”

_“Your hand… It was killing you.”_

Finally, I look over at the arm that has thus far been unresponsive to my wishes, and I begin to understand why. My hand is completely gone, removed just above the wrist, and the end of my arm is tightly wrapped in thick, heavy bandages. I doubt I have the strength to lift it on my own right now.

“Oh, my son…”

I place a delicate kiss on the end of his nose, and press my forehead against his. His tears fall with renewed vigor as I speak, my voice growing clearer with each word.

“You’ve done more than I ever could have asked of you. For the first time since I touched that blasted gem, I am not in agony. You’ve done well, Elrond.”

I continue to hold him as he sobs, and it is impossible to tell anymore whether it is from sorrow or joy that his tears fall, but there is still only so much strength in my limbs, and eventually my grasp on him loosens. Elrond, perceptive as he is, does not fail to notice. He sighs, regaining control of his hiccupping sobs, and begins the process of untangling our limbs.

_“You should probably be resting…”_

I shrug as he helps me settle back into the nest of pillows, although as the minutes tick past, my body is growing ever more insistent on a nap.

“Elrond?”

He hums, tucking the mountain of blankets around me. I sigh as the comforting weight of them further convinces me a nap is in order.

“How long did I sleep?”

He seems to hesitate before answering, his hand hovering above the hem of my quilt, near my shoulder. He frowns, and I know he is thinking about lying to me. He used to make the same face when he was a child.

_“Three weeks.”_

Three… weeks?

My eyes widen as the information sinks in.

_“There were… complications, during the surgery.”_

He looks like he might start crying again, and I wriggle my arm out from beneath the stack of blankets to reach for his hand. We both smile as he gives my fingers a squeeze, and holds on for the time being.

_“You started bleeding, profusely, and I couldn’t stop it. It just… kept coming.”_

He shakes his head, looking almost shameful.

_“You lost so much blood, and when you didn’t wake up when I expected you to, I started to worry you might never come back. I… I thought I had killed you.”_

My heart twists in my chest at the tone his voice takes. Gone is the visage of the confident healer who leads with a gentle hand, replaced now by the terrified child I rescued from burning to death in a tower all those years ago. I brush my thumb over his knuckles and he clutches my hand tighter.

“You don’t have to think about that anymore. I’m here now. I’m alive. And I'm never going to leave you again.”

His voice is small, smaller than I ever remember it sounding before.

_“Promise?”_

“Promise.”


	3. In the Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor needs to get out of the house more, but he does not, and I repeat, he DOES NOT need a babysitter.

_“Maglor.”_

I nearly fall out of my chair, spilling the last of the tea in my cup as the door to my chambers is thrown open with enough force to knock one of the paintings off the wall. To my great disappointment, there in the doorway stands a rather indignant-looking Celebrían, a basket of sewing supplies over one arm and a positively thunderous expression on her face.

“Y-Yes, Lady Celeb—”

_“You’re going outside today.”_

“I… pardon?”

_“I am going to go and sit in the garden and teach my daughter to sew, and you are coming with me.”_

“No, no, I’m sure it’s better if I stay in today. In fact it looks as though it might rain later…”

_“Maglor.”_

Her expression turns thoroughly unamused.

_“There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and your skin is so pale I can almost see through it. You need some sun.”_

“Oh, in which case, I’ll just take my tea out on the balcony…”

_“No, Maglor.”_

That’s when she grabs my hand, and I know it’s all over for me.

_“You’re coming to the garden with me.”_

I sigh, raising my handless arm in surrender and trying my hardest not to roll my eyes or start shaking. My daughter-in-law she may be, but she still has her mother’s demeaner, and it still terrifies me.

“Fine, fine, just… let me grab a shawl or something…”

She waits, clearly impatient, while I dig through the wardrobe that is entirely too big to house all of my meager possessions. I wish for it to take longer than it does to find something to keep me warm, but Elrond has spared nothing, it seems, in making sure I have ample selection in warm clothing. Fleece lined robes, shawls of any color, coats, and a variety of long-sleeved tunics abound, and so really what takes the most time is just picking the color I want.

_“Just take the blue one.”_

I look over my shoulder at her, noting that she isn’t even looking in the wardrobe, before she sighs irately.

_“I made it with the softest wool I could get. It’ll keep you warm, and it matches your outfit.”_

I quickly grab the article in question and wrap it around my shoulders, lest I risk more of her ire for taking too long.

_“Ready? Good. Now come on.”_

She doesn’t give me a chance to respond, really, before she takes my one and only hand and begins dragging me through the house. I must admit, there is a lot… more… of it than I was expecting. I know Elrond told me he is essentially in charge of this settlement (he doesn’t run it, he’s made that very clear to me: running the place _Erestor’s_ job), but somehow I still expected the rest of the house to be as modest as my quarters. Now that I’m actually walking the stone hallways and seeing the grand tapestries upon the walls, spaced out between carven statues, it feels more like a palace than a house.

I might need to have a word with Elrond about his vocabulary at some point.

Eventually, Celebrían drags me outdoors, and she is right: It is sunny and warm, with blue skies unmarred by a single cloud. So much for rain. The sudden light leaves me blinded for a moment, but it matters little as I am led through the garden. After a few minutes, through no small amount of blinking, my eyes adjust and it becomes easier to make out my surroundings.

We walk along a simple cobblestone path, lined on either side by well-pruned rosebushes. There are flowering trees as well, and no small number of dainty white blossoms I can’t quite name. There are others, though, too. Bachelor’s button and mountain lupine, lamb’s ear and irises, and… lilies. I smell them before I see them, of course, but I am not displeased with their fragrance as I once might have been. I used to hate them, in Amon Ereb. They would grow along the wall each year, whether by accident or some sick idea of the gardener’s, I did not care, but the smell would always find its way into my room, and I loathed it.

Now…

Now I actually find myself pleased when Celebrían pushes me down onto a bench surrounded by the strong-scented flowers. I cannot, for the life of me, remember why I hated them so much. When my hand is released, I delicately touch the edge of one of the velvety petals, gently rubbing the soft material between my fingers.

_“—glor? Maglor?”_

I look up, setting aside my fascination with the flowers and meeting Celebrían’s eyes. She seems… flustered.

“Sorry?”

She sighs, shaking her head as she settles beside me on the bench. Arwen, whose presence I had not noticed until now, sits cross-legged on the ground near her mother’s feet.

_“You weren’t answering me. For a moment, I thought I was going to have to go and get Elrond to bring you back…”_

Oh.

“Sorry, I was just… looking at the flowers.”

She seems unconvinced, but shrugs anyway, turning her attention to her daughter’s sewing lesson.

I lean back against the bench with a sigh, settling in. The sun feels surprisingly good, warming my old bones better than the fire in the hearth on most nights. There are a few others milling about the gardens, some are pruning the shrubs, I see one reading a book in the gazebo, and a few couples are strolling the paths, fingers entwined with the one who walks next to them.

There are two instances that I notice in this latter category. The first couple is young, recently wed, it would seem, perhaps only within the past few years. I can see it in the delicacy with which they move, hesitating as if they are afraid to break what they have together, unsure of where they stand with each other. Their young love is still innocent, passionate but inexperienced.

It contrasts starkly with the second couple I see.

They have been together for most of their lives. I can tell in the way they hold each other, made to fit like sturdy shoes a century old, well-worn and broken in, confident in their routine, a bond so strong they hardly need words to communicate with each other anymore. There are tears on his face, and she wipes them away with a knowing smile. She is his comforter, and although he is in turmoil they find peace in each other. But I can see it in his body, his slumped shoulders, the way his bones stick out through his clothing, how he leans against her. He is sick. Possibly dying. I’ve seen it before, in myself. Maybe he can be saved. Maybe.

It’s a choice he’ll have to make for himself.

_“Grandfather?”_

I blink, looking down at Arwen, who looks up at me with wide eyes. She holds out her embroidery hoop to me, and I smile, seeing her work. Silvery threads, just barely visible against the white cloth, mark the vague outline of a deer in the center of the hoop. It is crude, but I smile nonetheless.

“It’s beautiful, Arwen. Keep up the good work.”

When I move to hand the hoop back to her, her hands are already busy with another project, red yarn slipping easily in and out of the coarsely woven canvas she holds. There is… a lot of stitching done already. How long have I been looking at that deer?

She smiles anyway, taking the hoop back and setting it aside for later.

_“Checkmate.”_

I blink, frowning at the voice that comes from the gazebo. Gone is the elf reading his book, replaced now by two heads of dark hair, one clearly familiar even at this distance, sitting across from each other at a small table. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I rise with a groan and shuffle down the path to investigate.

Upon ascending the steps to the gazebo, I realize that I do, in fact, know one of the elves. Erestor, the one who, according to Elrond at least, actually runs most of Imladris. The other one… He looks younger, unfamiliar, and very frustrated.

_“Ah, Maglor. It’s good to see you out and about.”_

I nod back at Erestor’s greeting, and he introduces me to his companion.

_“This is Lindir, one of my assistants, and a fine musician as well. I am currently attempting to teach him the game of chess, but I fear at this point it may be a lost cause…”_

I almost chuckle as the younger elf turns bright red, opening and closing his mouth several times as he attempts to think up a retort.

“A pleasure to meet you, Lindir.”

His gaze drops into his lap, and I think he turns a shade or two darker, but he nods back subtly.

_“Would you perhaps care for a game, Maglor?”_

I return my attention to Erestor as he and Lindir both reset the game pieces. I take a moment to consider, but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. It’s been centuries since I’ve touched the game, but there’s no harm in seeing how much I remember. I nod, and take Lindir’s seat when he vacates it.

_“Stay and watch, Lindir, and maybe you might learn a thing or two to improve your game.”_

“I doubt it.”

I snort back at him, a smirk growing on my lips as I make the first move.

_“Oh, come now, Maglor. You taught Elrond to play, if memory serves me, and to date he is one of the few individuals who has ever defeated me in chess.”_

“Yes, well, if memory serves _me_ , Elrond has a propensity to cheat.”

I almost let out a cackle when his jaw drops, and I have to remind him it is his turn.

_“But…”_

He moves a pawn, and I take it in the next move.

“I may have taught the boys to play, but Maedhros taught them to cheat.”

_“That sneaky…”_

“Do not be over harsh on him, though. I doubt he even knows it’s cheating. My brother always referred to it as ‘Playing by Fëanorian rules’, which is, by its very nature, cheating.”

Another two moves and I have him in check.

_“I can’t believe this…”_

“Which? That I have you in check, or that your lord has been cheating this whole time?”

He breaks out into laughter, and I find myself giggling along with him. Even Lindir struggles to hold back.

_“The latter, of course. I’ll have to hold him more accountable next we play…”_

He takes my knight with his queen, avoiding defeat, for the moment.

“Bring a Sindarin rule book with you. Tell him he isn’t allowed to do anything that cannot be found in the book, and then see if you can bring him to justice.”

We both chuckle as he takes my rook, falling into the trap I’ve been building for the past thirty moves.

_“Believe me when I say I’ll be going to the library straight after this…”_

“The Noldor have always played fast and loose with the rules, and chess is no exception. Speaking of which, I believe I have the game.”

The look of shock on his face is even more pronounced than the one he gave when he realized Elrond had been cheating. I grin widely as he examines the board in great detail, trying and failing to find a way out. Lindir, too, leans over for a look, although his expression is less shocked and more impressed than anything.

_“How did you manage that? I’ve tried those same moves so many times on him, but he never falls for them!”_

The young elf speaks for the first time since meeting him, and it isn’t hard to hear the musicality in his light, sweet voice, even when he is simply speaking and not singing. I smile broadly and give him a knowing look.

“Ah, young Lindir. There are many things a minstrel’s silver tongue may be used for. Poetry, song, romantic encounters, but perhaps its most important use lies in the art of distracting one’s chess opponent just enough that they fall for your carefully laid traps.”

_“I… see.”_

Lindir’s face has returned to its previous bright-red hue, and I have to chuckle as Erestor resets the board.

_“Maglor? Maglor!”_

My ears perk at the familiar timbre of Elrond’s voice, and I see him practically sprinting up the path, with Celebrían and Arwen following close behind. My grin disappears at seeing the look of concern on his face, and he is almost breathless when he stops at the steps to the gazebo.

_“We’ve been looking everywhere for you! Celebrían said you wandered off when she wasn’t looking, and we’ve been worried sick since.”_

I feel a bit bad for worrying them, even if instinct is telling me to scream back at them about how I might be old and decrepit, but I do not need a babysitter. Although… perhaps... now that I consider it… given my new-found propensity to become so absorbed in my surroundings that I lose time, the thought may hold some merit.

I glance back at Elrond and catch him eyeing Erestor and the chess board between us. I can see the gears turning in his head as he thinks, quickly forgetting his fear over my whereabouts in favor of the question he next asks:

_“So… who won?”_


	4. Soiled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor falls hard and fast, in the early days of his new life, lost in foul memories of the past. But unlike before, Elrond is here to find him and bring him out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for occurrences of panic in this one, but there is fun family fluff to follow in the finale!

_CRASH_

I brace myself as I fall to the floor, landing in the scattered pile of freshly sharpened cutlery I had been carrying in a basket mere moments before. The pain of the impact is only brief, and I grunt as I push myself up onto my knees. I must have tripped over something, although when I look over my shoulder, I see nothing but the smooth stone floor of the hallway.

When I look back at my hands, however, I freeze, eyes widening as my jaw drops.

There is red _everywhere_.

All over the cutlery, all over my hand, all over the floor and my arm…

I blink furiously, trying to banish the images of bloodstained hands and dead elves as an iron band constricts around my chest. Drawing breath grows to be impossible, and my lungs quiver in shallow gasps. I cannot take my eyes from the streams of crimson flowing from my hand, my arm, dripping from my fingertips. How many times have I seen this very image, how many bodies lay piled behind me, brutalized by my blade?

Sweat beads upon my brow, and I tremble, still kneeling on the floor amid the flashing blades of knives and stabbing tines of forks, watching as my blood pours across the floor. I cannot move, I dare not move. Fear lances through my chest at the realization, even though the notion itself only makes half-sense:

I’ve spilled blood in Imladris.

It feels even more heinous than the First Kinslaying in the Blessed Realm…

I’ve defiled the valley my son fought so hard to create…

A strangled sob leaves my quaking form, and I cannot help but think that any punishment brought to bear upon me for this crime short of death will be far too lenient. I blink, and tears slide down my cheeks, and out of the corner of my eye I swear I can see my head rolling down the hallway. Dizziness assails me, and I can feel the frantic rhythm of my heart in every fiber of my being. If it beats fast enough, will it… just… stop?

It is probably nothing short of what I deserve.

At least there will be no execution to clean up after.

_“Maglor? What in the name of… oh Valar.”_

Oh, sweet Void, they’ve found me. They’ll see what I’ve done, the blood I’ve spilt, and they’ll kill me for it. I am a kinslayer, a murderer, a vagabond, and a usurper, unworthy even of continuing to draw breath. This is the end, this will be how I die, executed in the hallway for all to see—

_“Maglor.”_

There are hands on my face, under my jaw, guiding and tearing my gaze away from the blood, but I fail to see aught else through the tears.

_“Maglor, look at me.”_

It is Elrond, I realize to my abject horror. If there is anyone fit to dispatch me here and now, it would be the lord of the valley…

He swears as his hand comes away from my jaw, and some part of me that feels very far away wants to ridicule him for it, but there are so many other things drowning it out that I can barely hear it. I am suffocating in terror and I cannot breathe for it. The floor sways wildly, and I have to wonder if I am moving or if the distortion of water in my eyes gives the illusion.

In the distance I can hear the sharp diction that comes with barked orders, and the swift pattering of feet speeding away from me. I sob again, realizing that this must mean there are others around, watching. Surely, they have come to see the spectacle that will be my execution…

_“Maglor I need you to take a deep breath for me.”_

I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…

The harder I try, the harder it is to move air. His hand brushes gently over my shoulders and settles on my back. I can’t even flinch away, every muscle in my body is so rigid. I ache all over.

More pattering trickles in through the space between my ragged breaths, and Elrond’s cool and calloused fingertips brush my lips.

_“Maglor, can you open your mouth for me?”_

My jaw creaks as I try to, but I’ve clenched it so tight that all I manage to do is loosen the pressure. I can’t even bring my teeth apart…

He sighs, and wedges his finger between my lips, peeling my cheek back and sticking the end of a dropper in my mouth. The medicine is bitter and sour, and it leaves a tingling sensation in my throat when I swallow, but I have learned by now that it is far better to cooperate with Elrond when he feeds me his various concoctions than it is to fight him. He usually ends up winning, regardless.

_“That will take a minute to work, just hold onto me. Listen to my voice.”_

He keeps talking, going on about… something. I don’t even know what. I hiss when he wraps my bloody hand in a towel, then does the same with the stump of my other arm. I can’t hold back the grimace, or the whimper that accompanies it, when I see the bright crimson of my blood marring the pure white of the towel, just like Alqualondë, just like Doriath, and Sirion, just like the fawns in the tower—

_“Here, let’s just…”_

Elrond hoists me to my feet, one hand holding my arm across his shoulders, the other lifting under my armpit. I try to walk with him, though my joints are all stiff, and he ends up carrying most of my weight anyway. Not that I weigh much to begin with, and he is still young and strong besides.

We leave the bloodied cutlery behind us, shuffling steadily down the hallway. It doesn’t take more than a few minutes for me to lose track of where we are, it takes enough concentration just trying to put one foot in front of the other, to say nothing of tracking which hallway we’ve turned down. Even that is often too much, as I easily watch the floor shift and roil beneath me, and I would stumble if Elrond did not hold me. Eventually I give up, closing my eyes and letting him carry me where he will, even if it is to my death. I would not be surprised if that was my destination.

I grunt when I am set in a chair, my head falling backwards until it comes to rest against the back of the furniture. It is… softer than I had anticipated.

_“Maglor? Maglor.”_

He taps my cheek, and it takes more effort than I think it should to open my eyes again. Although my tears have largely dried, the hiccups that accompanied them have stuck around.

_“There you are. Can you try that deep breath again, now, please?”_

It is fragile, and framed by ragged gasps, but it is there, and it comes easier than the first time I tried. It would seem the iron trap around my chest has loosened, somewhat.

_“Good, very good.”_

I don’t know why he bothers with the praise, when I am as good as dead to him after what I’ve done. I’ve soiled his precious valley with blood, and—

_“Now, now, none of that. Focus on breathing, father.”_

That name… yet another thing I do not deserve. I swallow the lump forming in my throat, and shut my eyes again, afraid to look him in the face. It always holds far more kindness than it should.

_“Maglor. The more erratic your breaths are, the worse you will feel.”_

I believe it. With each wheeze, the iron bands tighten their grasp on me. It is crushing me, like a constrictor squeezing the life out of its prey. I feel like I am dying, suffocating in fear, but there is Elrond, like always, his comforting presence banishing the terror like a light in the dark.

_“Here… follow.”_

He takes my bloodied hand and presses it against his chest. I can feel every breath, every heartbeat, strong, steady and slow. The thought that I’ve just soiled his shirt is a fleeting one, quickly replaced by the stable rhythm he sets for me.

I put great effort into matching his pace, slowing my breaths, and consequently, my racing heart. Like before, I feel less overwhelmed with each passing second, my own frantic rhythm evening out as the anxiety slowly dissipates. With time, the metal bands dissolve and my quivering subsides, the tension in my body replaced by a feeling of numb exhaustion that cradles me like a cloud. Suddenly, there is no room for the panic that was previously my only focus, drowned out now by serene lethargy.

After a deep, hiccup-riddled sigh, I peel one eye open to see where Elrond has gone. I blink upon realizing he is still right in front of me, although the chair I was originally pushed into has now been replaced with comfortable chaise lounge, and I am curled up on my side with a thick and heavy blanket tucked around me. Elrond holds my hand in his, and I watch detachedly as he sutures the worst of the cuts closed. The bloody handprint I see on the front of his shirt fills me with no small amount of embarrassment. He smiles, of course, upon catching my gaze.

_“Welcome back.”_

I groan, pressing my face into the cushion my head rests on. I feel tired and sore, dizzy and more than a little bit confused. My chest hurts more than anything, although my head is aching enough that the contest is a close call.

_“How are you feeling?”_

My voice is croaky, barely audible.

“Tired.”

He nods, wrapping my lacerated hand tenderly in soft bandages. He cares far too much for me, I am convinced.

_“That’s understandable, considering what happened.”_

I shift my weight a bit as he takes the stump of my arm and begins to clean the cuts there. Funny, it looked so much worse in the hallway…

_“Fear like that is an exhausting experience.”_

I can only barely feel the sting of antiseptic, and the vague pinching of the suture needle feels fuzzy and distant.

_“And the medicine I gave you tends to leave one feeling drowsy as well. I wouldn’t fault you for going back to sleep.”_

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted.

_“In fact, I would recommend it.”_

A rough sigh escapes me just as he finishes tying the last of the bandages. I groggily watch as he stands, then adjusts the blanket around my shoulders before also tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

_“I have some work that needs to be done, but I won’t be far, just over there.”_

I vaguely follow where he points, and see a desk riddled with papers, some stacked so high they have begun to fall over.

_“Just call for me if you need anything, alright?”_

He smiles, then wipes the remaining blood off his hands before sauntering off to the desk. I, on the other hand, immediately burrow as far under the provided blanket as possible. I still feel chilled, but the exhaustion lapping at my consciousness is far stronger than the urge to shiver, and I settle in for a nap.

I don’t quite sleep, though, not really. Doze? Yes, I doze. I rest, in a sort of trance, where time is marked only by the soft scratch of a quill on paper, and the occasional shuffling of pages as one document is finished and the next begins. It is peaceful, and I wish I could save this moment forever, where I feel calm and comfortable, and remember it in the times when fear chokes out all else.

Just when I am on the verge of actually falling asleep, my ears perk at the click of the door unlatching, and dainty footsteps crossing the rug capture what little attention I have. A minute passes, and a quiet conversation passes over my head.

_“Elrond?”_

_“Hm?”_

_“How is he?”_

_“Right now? Sleeping things off, I believe.”_

_“Fastien told me what happened, that she heard him fall and found him in the hallway, all cut up and muttering about blood everywhere.”_

_“There wasn’t actually that much blood.”_

_“I know. But I imagine he probably convinced himself there was.”_

_“It would make sense. He may have caught sight of the blood and seen himself in the past.”_

There is a tense silence between them, and I can feel their gazes on me, although I can’t be bothered to sit up or even open my eyes. Where before every muscle had been a taut bowstring, now I feel weak as a newborn.

_“Is this something that is going to happen again?”_

I hear Elrond sigh heavily, and the light footsteps grow louder as they approach my little nest.

_“I don’t know, Brí. It may, it may not. Perhaps it will happen less frequently with time. Right now, it’s hard to say.”_

Celebrían matches her husband’s sigh, and her delicate fingers comb through my hair as she sits upon the edge of the chaise, making it dip ever so slightly.

_“He’s afraid.”_

_“I know.”_

_“Of everything.”_

_“I know.”_

_“He knows he is safe here, but he’s still afraid of things that aren’t there.”_

_“I know…”_

Heavier, calloused fingers join those of Celebrían, and I know my son has joined her. Elrond continues, and I think he has taken her hand out of my hair to hold it, and I am grateful for that. Even if I am more comfortable around his wife these days, she still unnerves me.

_“I think he’s spent so long living in fear, he doesn’t know how to live without it.”_

_“Well then, we’ll just have to teach him, to live without it.”_

_“Brí…”_

His tone almost sounds annoyed, almost. Mostly… it sounds concerned.

_“What?”_

_“Just take it slow. He’s still fragile, remember?”_

_“I think he’s sturdier than you give him credit for.”_

_“Brí.”_

_“Fine! I’ll be careful, I promise.”_

_“Thank you.”_


	5. Ride on, Ride on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short, sweet moment between grandfather and grandson.

_“This plan of yours appears to be… ill advised.”_

“Oh, shut up, Erestor.”

His constant hovering has gotten no less irritating with time, and today he seems especially insistent. I’ve told him before I do not need a babysitter, and although at the beginning I may have been wrong in that, these days I am far more capable.

“I may be old, but I am not yet entirely useless. Besides, Elrohir will be here any minute, and then you can go back inside to your precious library and spend your afternoon with the numbers and figures that I’m convinced you like far more than me anyway.”

_“Well… you aren’t wrong.”_

I stare accusingly at him before the plodding of footsteps coming from the other direction grabs my attention. Just as promised, it is Elrohir, toting a saddle down the aisle of the barn and grinning ear to ear. I can’t help but smirk back at Erestor.

“See? Now go and tend to your beloved numbers.”

_“Fine, fine, I’ll go. But if I look out the library window and see you sprawled out in the arena on your back, you can bet your last silver I will be sending your son down.”_

I roll my eyes, wondering if my old age has driven me to immaturity as Elrohir giggles, then I wave off Erestor’s concerns.

“He has enough to take care of these days, no need to trouble him with such trivial matters.”

_“I highly doubt he would consider a potential threat to your life to be ‘trivial’, especially with how hard he worked to give it to you in the first place…”_

Unfortunately, he’s learned just how to twist my arm when he wants something.

“I promise we will be careful.”

With a skeptical huff, Erestor turns and glides out of the barn. I know he means well, but I am not made of glass, and I have told him so on many occasions, though it seems to make no difference. Still, he is a good friend, and a decent chess opponent, and most days I’m just grateful that he’s the one who follows me around all day and not his husband.

I shudder when the blue-eyed stallion belonging to said elf seems to glare straight at me, like he knows when his master is being thought poorly of.

I like neither the elf nor the horse.

_“So how much help do you want with this, grandfather?”_

I turn my attention back to Elrohir, who, like a saint, has been waiting patiently for me this whole time. I frown, considering exactly what I can do with only one hand.

“I think I can manage just about everything except the girth. It’s hard enough to manage with two hands… it may be an exercise in futility with just one.”

_“Fair enough.”_

He chuckles at my analysis, and I follow him over to one of the box stalls. Inside is a silvery blue mare, sturdily built with black mane and tail, black legs, and a black stripe down the length of her back. Her ears perk forward, and she seems to give me an appraising look from where I stand at the door.

_“We call her Star-Sailor. She’s… well. She’s unique, that’s for certain.”_

“I’m not sure I like the way you say that.”

_“It’s nothing bad, I promise!”_

He drapes the saddle over the half-door of the stall and steps in, and my skepticism increases tenfold when the mare’s ears immediately fold back against her head. For whatever reason, she does not seem to be particularly fond of my grandson.

_“She’s been a project of mine for her whole life… along with many of her ancestors before her. Father put me in charge of breeding this herd a couple of centuries ago, and I’ve learned a lot about their genetics in that time. I’ve read about horses this color before, they call it silver-blue, and I wanted to see if I could recreate it with the breeding stock here, and… well, I did.”_

“I… see.”

_“She’s practically perfect! I made sure to breed for strength and stamina in addition to color, she’s been carefully trained and handled her whole life, and she’s incredibly intelligent… The only problem is that she, uh, she won’t let me breed her.”_

I give him a rather incredulous look as he reaches out to stroke her neck, although he barely gets within inches of her before she tries to bite his hand.

“Is that why she hates you?”

_“Probably.”_

The snort I make causes the mare to jump and nearly kick Elrohir. He just sighs and returns to the door to retrieve the saddle. Funnily enough, she seems far more amenable to my grandson’s presence with the saddle in his hands.

_“She’s perfectly happy being ridden. In fact, she’ll go all day if you ask her to. But stars forbid you bring her near a stud. She’s chased off every single one we’ve introduced her to, and in fact she nearly killed one that didn’t quite get the message. So, as I said… she’s unique.”_

“Fair enough.”

I sigh, stepping into the stall and finding myself ankle-deep in straw. She seems wary of me, though not hostile like with Elrohir. Her black nose reaches forward for a sniff, and her ears perk a bit in curiosity. I take it to be a good sign, especially as she further relaxes when my grandson steps back.

_“See? It’s just me she hates.”_

He hands me a brush and I get to work grooming the dust and hay out of her coat. She watches me curiously, and doesn’t seem to mind my blundering, as I attempt to clean out her hooves one-handed. Donning her tack, on the other hand, proves to be a task far greater than I was prepared for, and after my fourth failed attempt to get her blanket on straight, I admit defeat and ask my grandson for help.

_“To be fair, you lasted longer than I thought you would.”_

“Oh?”

I scowl in frustration, watching him do in seconds what I had struggled with for the better part of fifteen minutes.

_“I didn’t even think you would be able to pick her hooves without help.”_

I want to be offended, but he is already holding out the reins for me, his warm smile showing nothing but good will, and I cannot bring myself to be cross with him. I’ve been susceptible to that same smile ever since his father started using it on me all those millennia ago, and it hasn’t lost any of its potency over the years. Instead, I sigh and thank him for his help, taking the reins and following him out of the stall, leading the mare behind me.

He wanders back down the aisle of the barn, and ducks into a stall near the back, returning with a black gelding in hand. It is one I’ve seen him ride before, and one I know to be a favorite of his. This in mind, I am only halfway surprised when Elrohir hoists himself onto the animal’s back without so much as a blanket between them.

“No tack?”

He shrugs, and watches as I struggle to get myself on my horse even with the help of a saddle.

_“I’ve been working on training him without. At this point I think he might throw me off if I used anything more than a blanket.”_

I grunt, finally getting myself settled on Star-Sailor’s back, and nod back at my grandson. It feels like such a foreign concept to be training a horse specifically to not be accustomed to the feel of a saddle and bridle, but I have to remind myself that these are different times. I’m certain there are still some mounts trained for war, but it is no longer a necessity as it was when I last turned my thoughts to the training of horses.

It feels strange to be doing this, riding out into the mountains with my grandson, simply for the sake of enjoying the summer weather. No hunting, no patrolling, no fleeing for our lives, just a quiet afternoon ride through the woods.

I think it is a good feeling.

We ride from the valley at a trot, not because we must make haste and still save our horses’ strength, but simply because we want to. It takes little time before we lose sight of civilization, surrounded by quaking aspens and beeches, a slight breeze causing their leaves to rustle overhead, and bringing with it the cool and refreshing scent of the mountains. I am perfectly happy letting Elrohir lead; he knows this region, and it allows me time to simply enjoy the scenery and let my mare follow at the pace he sets.

She is surprisingly well-behaved for the aggression she showed in the barn. This whole time I have been expecting her to reach around and bite my toes, or at least buck once or twice, but she seems perfectly content now, looking around at the scenery, ears forward and alert but not hostile.

Perhaps Elrohir was right in saying that she simply hates him for trying to get her to breed.

“What of her sire and dam?”

_“Hm?”_

“Star-Sailor. Can you not cross her sire and dam again and try for a more… agreeable… horse?”

He sighs heavily at that, and I feel a bit like I’ve hit a sore spot.

_“Well… not really, no. Her dam is still alive and well, but her sire came from Lothlórien. It was a slim chance between them of producing a silver-blue foal to begin with, just about one in ten, actually, but the sire died not long after returning to Lórien. A stomach illness, I was told.”_

“Well that does complicate things.”

_“Indeed.”_

We are quiet for a while after, riding in silence until the trees begin to thin out and small patches of snow appear beside the trail.

“I think… I think I have an idea that might help you with your horse problem.”

Elrohir looks over his shoulder at me, a somewhat skeptical expression on his face.

“It has been a few thousand years since I’ve tried it, but it may help our lovely mare here give you a foal…”

He raises an eyebrow at me, but I can see the hope in his eyes.

_“Go on…”_

I smirk, before spending the rest of the afternoon explaining my idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was this chapter basically an excuse for me to let out my inner geneticist and horse nerd? Yes, yes it was. Am I ashamed of it? Only kinda.


	6. Reconcile in Freefall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is time for Maglor to face something he has been putting off for a long time. It isn't going to be easy, and his attitude isn't making it any easier.

“This is a horrible idea, and I do not condone it in any way, shape or form.”

_“You are being melodramatic.”_

“I am not. I am being completely reasonable.”

I remain firm, glaring at Elrond as he packs my bags for me, having given up on convincing me to do so myself. He glares back, of course, folding one of my shawls up so that it fits in the satchel.

_“Your cousin bears you no ill will. In fact, I think she will be glad to see you well.”_

With a grumble, I wad up the blanket draped over my arm and throw it at him.

_“Now you’re just being petulant.”_

He sighs, folding that up too and shoving it into the bag.

“I don’t want to go.”

_“I know.”_

He crosses the room and hugs me from behind, weaving his fingers between mine and holding my remaining hand tightly. I sigh, reluctantly leaning against him.

“I really don’t want to go.”

_“I promise you, it will not be nearly as bad as you are imagining. We are only going to be there for a week, and you won’t even have to attend my meetings with her. If hiding away in the flet all day will make you happier, you are welcome to it.”_

“Perhaps it would be best if I stayed behind to help Erestor while you’re away…”

_“Maglor.”_

I fall silent as he tightens his grip on me.

_“Erestor can handle things while we’re gone. I promise. This will be good for you, getting out of Imladris. You are coming with us. Besides, I think Celebrían has half a mind to tie you to the back of her palfrey the whole way if you try to stay behind.”_

I grimace at the thought and peel myself out of my son’s grasp.

“I think I would rather that didn’t happen.”

_“I thought you might come to see it that way.”_

He slings my bag over his shoulder, then takes my hand and I follow him outside to the courtyard. Celebrían is there, waiting impatiently atop a gray mare, along with a company of guardsmen, a handful of pack animals, and two other horses awaiting my son and me.

_“About time you joined us. I was worried I might actually have to get the rope.”_

I look sheepishly up at my son’s wife, although her expression is all mirth. My head shakes, and I lift myself up onto my own beast while Elrond ties my bag to one of the pack horses.

All too soon, I am tightening my shawl around my shoulders as our party rides out the gates and into the mountains. The air is fresh, but I am chilled more by the idea of where I am headed than the weather. After all, it is high summer, and the sky is clear and bright, letting the sun warm our backs as we ride out of the woods. At least the pass should be clear enough that the snow will not be a problem, when we reach it.

Up ahead, Elrond and Celebrían ride side by side, holding hands as we travel through the foothills. It is… cute. The part of me that isn’t occupied with stewing in my own misery is warmed and happy at the sight, even if the impending dread that hangs over my head casts a shadow on it. I am glad my son has found happiness in this broken world, but there is an ache in my chest that reminds me of how the world came to be so broken, and I have to wonder how much of it was my fault.

_“Lord Maglor?”_

The words shake me out of my internal fussing.

“I am nobody’s lord now.”

I give the guard who addressed me an unconvinced look, who at least has the wherewithal to look uncomfortable.

_“Apologies…”_

He looks even more uncomfortable the longer I stare at him. Eventually he turns away, urging his horse forward so that he no longer rides by my side. It is just as well, I am not in a mood for company anyway.

When we break for the night, I settle by the fire, putting as much distance between myself and the rest of the company as I can. I am still in no mood for conversation, and all I want is to go back home to my nice warm bed and curl up in a mountain of blankets for the next week. Considering that goal is far out of reach now, I will settle for sulking.

_“Maglor.”_

I sigh, reluctantly glancing up from the flames to see my son holding out a bowl of stew to me. I want to refuse it, but my stomach quickly betrays my hunger with an unholy sound akin to a boiling mud pot.

_“Take it, or I’ll hand feed you.”_

He sounds very tired all of a sudden, and I have an idea that my attitude of late has played no small part in that.

_“Please. I really do not want to force you to eat when we both know you’re hungry.”_

I relent and take the bowl. The food is filling, if mostly tasteless. Although yet again I have a feeling that has less to do with whoever made it and more to do with my current state of mind. The bowl is set aside when I finish, empty and practically clean. I hate that Elrond is always right and I hate myself for hating that.

A hand comes to rest on my shoulder, and soon my son sits beside me, eating his own stew. He smiles, and I feel my mood shift minutely for the better, albeit against my will.

_“Feeling a bit better?”_

“Unfortunately.”

I scowl, although it is only half-hearted. He only smiles in return.

_“Things will improve, I promise.”_

He rubs at my shoulder, and frowns when he finds it tense with knots. It is unsurprising, really, at least to me. Perhaps he had thought I would calm once we left the city, but in fact if anything my disposition has turned even fouler. I did not want to leave in the first place, and now that we are on the road I am even less pleased.

_“Are these knots newly established, or have you just been carrying them around for the past century like the last batch I worked out?”_

I just grumble back at him, hissing when he starts working at a particularly stubborn one. He sighs irately at my grumbling and redoubles his efforts against my persistent musculature.

_“No wonder you’ve been irritable.”_

A growl bubbles up in the back of my throat as I hear the approach of another. I grimace, seeing Celebrían’s gray raiment passing in front of me.

_“Something wrong?”_

_“He’s just tense.”_

Her hand joins Elrond’s at my shoulders, and I pull my knees up to my chest and fold myself over them. I want to go home. I do not like sitting on the ground like this, it reminds me of the years I spent wandering in the wilds before. I feel cold, colder even than I did this afternoon.

_“Can I help?”_

My son brushes the hair back from my eyes. I give him a look that by all accounts should tell him I wish to be left alone, but it is ignored. I try the same expression on Celebrían, and it seems even less effective. He sighs, and he lifts me upright from under my arms, and I do not fight him. I can bear my own weight these days, I do not need to be carried.

_“Come on, off to bed with you.”_

I grumble, but do not protest further when he practically shoves me into one of the empty tents lined up around the camp. I sit cross-legged on the ground, letting my shawl fall away from my shoulders as Elrond and Celebrían both follow me inside. Shame heats my face. I wish they would not bother with me, especially not Celebrían, but I know that she will follow her husband, and I know that it is futile to try and dissuade my son.

_“Elrond, I want to help.”_

There is silence, for a while, as Elrond peels off my outer coat, grimy with travel and sweat. I do not want to be here. I close my eyes as she comes to sit in front of me, holding my hand in hers. He sighs, clearly thinking.

_“I know.”_

_“Do you need anything? I can go and get your medicine bag if you need it.”_

She squeezes my fingers, gently rubbing at the callouses on each knuckle as my son continues thinking.

_“Yes, actually. That would be very helpful.”_

Just like that, she releases my hand and flits out of the tent, leaving me and Elrond alone in the darkness.

_“You ought to lay down, Maglor.”_

I turn my head to my son and glower at him. I barely even notice the knots in my shoulders, and here he is doing everything he can to banish them. It is an act in futility, especially here, especially now. I know they will be back by tomorrow midday, and they will hurt even more than they do at present.

_“Come on, father.”_

With an overly dramatic groan, I stretch out on my side amid the various blankets strewn about the tent. It is not particularly comfortable, but it is a bit of an improvement. Elrond presses on my side until I turn onto my stomach, and he continues his earlier work on my shoulders and neck.

It hurts, and I squirm beneath his hands. When Celebrían returns her footfalls are as soft as rain drops, and I barely notice them. Soon a cool, mint-scented salve is rubbed into the skin over every knot of muscle. I sigh, tension seeping out of me with each breath, quicker once Celebrían begins rubbing the same salve into my hand and forearms.

_“Will he sleep?”_

_“I am hoping so. If not, at least he will be more comfortable.”_

I open one eye to glare at my son. He smiles down at me in return and I give a half-hearted grumble.

_“The salve should keep his muscles relaxed for a while. Long enough for him to get some rest, surely, and hopefully enough to keep the knots from reforming for a couple of days at least.”_

Well… we’ll see about that. I feel like I’m under enough stress to start growing new ones immediately, but for now I am so tired it hardly matters. I close my eyes when another blanket is draped over my shoulders. Delicate fingers card through my hair, working out the tangles and massaging my scalp, easing the tension there. The scent of lavender and juniper wafts around me.

_“Is that the hair oil that Arwen got for you? The one you like so much?”_

_“Yes, what of it?”_

_“You’re spoiling him, Brí.”_

_“So? What if I do? He’s suffered enough to warrant a little spoiling.”_

_“Even if he is being an irritable child?”_

Elrond’s light chuckling floats over me, and I start to genuinely settle once he and his wife rise to leave. The tent grows quiet as the sound of their retreating footsteps becomes softer, and I further melt into my nest of blankets. My skin grows warm where the salve has been worked in, spreading heat and causing the muscles beneath to grow lax and pliable.

I curl onto my side, further burrowing into the blankets with a sigh. Perhaps those knots were actually bothering me, although I would still never admit it. Now is when I realize just how tired I am, when the physical weariness of riding all day catches up to me and I realize that it has been a very long time since I’ve done so much in a day. No wonder I am exhausted.

It almost seems mocking of Irmo to send me dreams of tall trees and wide flets, white boles rising from mossy earth, with silver leaves glistening in the sunlight like the polished shields of a great host of warriors. I toss and turn in my sleep, dreaming of dark shadows flitting through the boughs of the mallyrn.

My feet stand upon the thin edge of the platforms that the Galadhrim call home, my toes curling over the edge. A shadow flies out of the branches, slamming into my back, and now I am falling, over and over, tumbling through the air with leaves whipping my cheeks as I plummet. I fall for an eternity and more, the ground growing closer with each branch that rams into my body, each leaf that cuts my face.

The moss blanketing the earth rises up to meet me, wind whistling in my ears, and I brace for the impact that I know is coming. I am blinded by white light, crushing pain shooting through my body as I hit the ground.

I wake in a cold sweat, to the light of dawn and the sounds of a camp stirring from slumber.

_“Maglor?”_

“Hm…?”

My son’s face pokes through the flap of the tent as I rub the sleep from my eyes.

_“Come have some breakfast. It is almost time to go.”_

I grumble, but still wrap my coat around my shoulders and get up to eat. At the very least, it will make Elrond happy, and if I can make Elrond happy, he might be more likely to leave me alone in my sulking.

The days are much the same as we travel. I wake up, eat breakfast, and we begin our ride. At least one guard always tries to talk to me during the day, although it is never the same one. I think they are daring each other to try and have a conversation with me. I wish they would stop.

When night falls, we make camp and my son makes sure I eat something, then promptly puts me to bed before I have the chance to settle into my moody lurking. It is just as well, not that sulking is any more fun when there are others around to watch. Just as he said, the knots do not return, although Elrond still comes into my tent and rubs my shoulders each night, and Celebrían still combs out my hair as I’m falling asleep.

Why they bother, I’ll never know.

Still, not even all of their tenderness can stave off the anxiety that grows in my heart the closer we get to Lothlórien. The dream from the first night returns every time I close my eyes, and I find myself becoming even more frustrated and irritable than I was previously.

I can just make out the tree line of the forest as we descend from the mountains, and it causes me to tighten my coat around my shoulders as I shiver. Nothing has changed since setting out, save the newfound absence of the knots in my shoulders: I still very much do not want to be here.

The night we camp inside the borders of the wood is, by far, the worst thus far. I don’t even wait for Elrond to shepherd me off to bed, but crawl into my tent as soon as it is erected. I skip dinner altogether, which, unfortunately, does not go unnoticed. It isn’t more than a few minutes, really, before my son comes to pester me, a bowl of food in hand.

_“I’ve brought your supper.”_

“I don’t want it.”

He sighs heavily, and I can tell he does not want to fight with me tonight. Frankly, I do not want to fight either, but here we stand nonetheless.

_“Do I need to resurrect my earlier threat of feeding you by hand?”_

“It would not make a difference.”

The glare I receive from him is sharp enough to stab with, but I stand my ground, hardening my tone and hoping he gets the message.

“My stomach hurts. I don’t want anything to eat right now.”

_“If your stomach hurts, I have some medicine that—”_

“No, Elrond.”

The look on his face is nothing short of hurt, and he nearly drops the bowl as he stares at me with a mix of shock and dejection. The words I speak ache as they come out, but I keep going. He needs to learn that there are some things he cannot fix.

“Please, just… let me be. Just for tonight.”

_“But…”_

“I need some space right now. You can smother me with attention all you want once we reach Caras Galadhon, but right now I need to be left alone.”

_“Maglor, I—”_

“I said leave me alone!”

Without thinking, I shove him toward the front of the tent, nearly causing him to fall straight out onto his rear. I doubt I could have managed it ordinarily, but he is still reeling from my stinging comments, distracted enough that I can push him at least a few steps back.

_“I… alright.”_

I watch his expression morph from shock to anger, and he says no more before quietly leaving the tent so that I can stew in peace.

The remainder of the night crawls by far too slowly for my liking. I pass the time curled up in my nest of blankets, tossing uncomfortably and fretting about tomorrow for most of the evening. There are some moments when I can vaguely make out Elrond’s raised voice from across the camp, followed quickly by Celebrían’s even tones as she likely attempts to soothe him.

Part of me grins rather wickedly within, knowing that my son is normally slow to anger, and yet I have managed to rile him by spurning his attempts to hover.

But he is still my son, and my righteous indignation only lasts for so long. It dissolves early in the night, leaving a hollow pit in my stomach, probably exacerbated by my refusal of dinner. I know he is only trying to help, but it is frustrating knowing that I would not even need him to hover if he had simply honored my wishes to stay in Imladris.

I shake my head and turn over onto my other side, wondering if my body has grown so used to the nightly massages that it grows stiff without them, or if the ache that permeates my whole being is instead due to the anxiety of knowing I will have to face my cousin tomorrow. Perhaps I can feign illness? It wouldn’t be terribly far-fetched, although it would undoubtedly incite more hovering on Elrond’s part. Best not. The last thing I need is him shoving more tinctures and potions down my throat.

_At least he is willing to care for you._

The little voice in the back of my mind whispers as I flip over yet again. I want to disregard it, but I know that it speaks truth. My son has shown nothing but love and concern for me since the day I wandered into his little settlement. I do not know by what hand I was led there, be it fate or one of those meddlesome Valar, but I know that if I had not been found I would be dead by now.

It is a hard truth to swallow, and I mull it over for quite some time before I can bring myself to accept it. By then, the camp has gone quiet. The only sounds to be heard beyond my own breaths are the dying fire and the soft chatter of the guardsmen watching over us. It is no lullaby, but it gives my frayed mind something simple to focus on, and after some time I eventually drift towards sleep.

Once again, I dream of falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative summary: You can take a Noldo on vacation, but you can't make him enjoy it.
> 
> As always, please do leave a comment if you're enjoying my little ramblings.


	7. Gossip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Portions of conversation that Maglor is probably glad he missed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some short comic relief in this one. Thought I'd experiment with a dialogue-only chapter, and this seemed like a good candidate. In addition, Glorfindel possesses neither shame nor self-control.

“That old mouser has been sleeping with him again.”

“Which one? Bramble? You know he makes his rounds as he pleases. I’m sure he’ll end up back in your bed before the month is out.”

“No, Phantom.”

“… oh.”

“You know what happens to people when she starts sleeping with them.”

“That’s superstition, Elladan. It holds no factual merit.”

“He’s going to die soon.”

“No, he won’t. She only starts sleeping with people who are sick because they have a fever. She’s old and skinny, she probably likes the extra heat. Stop being so dramatic.”

“You won’t be saying that when we light his pyre.”

“Elladan. Stop it. He isn’t going to die. Father and I have been working hard to clear his body of the infection, and now he’s recovering. The presence of a skinny old cat lying on his feet while he sleeps is not going to change that. Once he fights off the fever, he’ll essentially be out of danger.”

“That’s assuming he fights off the fever. What if he doesn’t? There’s still a chance of that, right?”

“There is always a chance.”

“See? See what I’m saying, Elrohir? He’s going to die. They always do.”

“I see that you’re full of pessimistic nonsense. You’ve been spending too much time out in the woods again, it’s addled your brain.”

“And you’ve been spending too much time with Erestor, clearly. Every time you open your mouth, he comes out to tell me off.”

“If you would have spent more time in your studies instead of sneaking off to the training yard at every opportunity, maybe—”

“Something the matter? I thought I heard my name.”

“Er…”

“Sorry, Erestor. That was just Elladan making a fool of himself.”

“Hey!”

“Both of you, stop. Your bickering is doing nothing to help your grandfather recover. He needs peace and quiet, not squabbling and raised voices. Now go and make yourselves useful doing something productive. I’ll sit with him a while.”

* * *

“Erestor?”

“Hm?”

“Do you need a break? Some food, maybe? You’ve been in here for hours…”

“I’m fine, Glorfindel.”

“The way your joints are popping tells me you haven’t moved all afternoon. How many books have you read through?”

“… seven, including this one.”

“You need a break. And a back rub.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure, whatever you say. But I will not be held responsible for the noises your stomach makes when I return with a plate of fried potatoes.”

“… please ignore the sound my stomach just made.”

“I refuse. Stay there. I’ll bring food.”

“… fine.”

* * *

“Please tell me you brought two plates.”

“Well it’s a good thing we’re married, and I can read your mind, then.”

“You did?”

“Two plates of fried potatoes smothered in that spicy chutney from Rohan you like so much.”

“You spoil me.”

“I try. Now get up and put your book away so you can sit on my lap while you eat.”

“You really spoil me.”

“Yes, now shut up and eat your potatoes so I can give you a massage.”

“Did you bring the peppermint oil?”

“Have I ever given you a back rub without peppermint oil?”

“Yes, and it was a terrible experience.”

“… fair point. Yes, I brought the peppermint oil.”

“Excellent.”

“… I still don’t understand how you can eat that stuff. Its hotter than the fires of Mordor.”

“Mmm, hotter than Balrog fire, if they make it right. I still haven’t gotten the cooks to be able to replicate it, and I’ve been trying for a thousand years.”

“Please don’t compare it to that.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Just eat your potatoes.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Now that’s more like it. I do love it when you use that tone of voice with me.”

“… what?”

“When you call me Captain. Especially when you’re on your knees—”

“Glorfindel, can you please, for my sake, if no one else’s, keep your libido under control?”

“Oh, come on, please?”

“What would Elrond say if he caught us like that while I was supposed to be watching over his ill father? No, do _not_ give me that look.”

“But… hey, come back!”

“No. Out. Now.”

“Erestor—”

“I will finish my potatoes and join you once Elrond comes in to replace me later this evening.”

“You mean—”

“Thank you for the back rub, love. Save it for tonight.”

* * *

“Erestor.”

“Elrond.”

“All quiet, I trust?”

“Yes. Your boys were being brats, so I sent them off to more productive tasks than disturbing Maglor’s rest, and then my husband decided to be a disruption about an hour ago, but outside of that, nothing has changed.”

“I doubt he even heard the ruckus… that he hasn’t stirred in a week tells us just how deep he sleeps.”

“Still, it is good to give him a restful environment, yes?”

“I am starting to wonder if it even matters.”

“Elrond.”

“Hm?”

“Do not lose hope just yet. I think if he was going to die he would have done so in surgery. The fact that he is still breathing says much about his will to live.”

“Perhaps you are right. It would have been so easy for him to slip away…”

“Oh, and Elrond?”

“Yes?”

“If I am ever unlucky enough to be comatose in your care, please keep both your sons and my husband as far away from me as possible.”

“Because of the noise?”

“Among other things.”

“… Ah.”


	8. Reconcile in Freefall II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleep deprivation, stress, and fear are a poor recipe for dinner.

Entering Caras Galadhon is a nightmare, with entirely too many people and entirely too much noise. Of course, the Lord and Lady of the Wood would make a fuss when their daughter comes to visit, although I wish they wouldn’t. As soon as we near the city, I bundle myself up in as much clothing as I can manage, raising my hood and doing whatever I can to hide my face. Perhaps Elrond is right, and Artanis will be happy to see me, but there is always the chance that someone else here might not be so pleased to know that I live.

The mallyrn make me feel so small, and it bothers me. I already don’t like the helpless feeling I’ve had since entering Lothlórien, I do not need it made worse by the very trees themselves.

I try to keep my head down as we ride through the more populated areas. No sense in announcing my presence sooner than absolutely necessary. Elrond keeps glancing over at me, and I can tell he’s caught on to my unease, but at least he has the self-control to leave me be for the moment, though it’s clear he wishes nothing more than to come over and pester me.

Bless his heart, I can see the inner battle in his eyes.

When we finally stop, I hesitate to move. Everyone else dismounts and the guards begin unloading the pack horses, but I cannot bring myself to leave the miniscule comfort zone that is my saddle.

A hand on my knee draws my attention, and I scowl at the concern written across Elrond’s face. He says nothing, for which I am grateful, but I still wish he would not bother. Above all else, though, I wish he had left me at home. Still, I sigh and step down off my horse, shrugging off the hands at my shoulders when they try to guide me. I can follow just fine without them, and I do, tossing my bag over my shoulder and keeping my head down as I shuffle after them. I try to remain in the middle of the group, as far away from strangers as possible, but I am certain I catch a few suspicious onlookers staring right at me.

I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag to keep my one remaining hand from trembling.

The climb upwards to our accommodations is far too long, and the nervousness in my bones grows more intense the higher we are. I do not like being this far away from the ground, especially with all of the dreams I’ve had of late. I wish there were more walls in this place, more ceilings. Everything is far too open to the sky, and I feel like I may legitimately float away if I am not careful.

_“Come on, Maglor.”_

It is only now that I actually notice we’ve stopped our ascent, and the door to our home for the week stands before me. Everyone else has already gone in and begun unpacking, while I have apparently been staring at the sky which seems entirely too close for comfort.

I follow them inside, and Elrond beckons me over to a smaller room off to the side of the main area. I would describe it as comfortable, but for the wide picture windows and sunlight streaming in through the glass roof. At least there is a bed for me, and a decently sized trunk at the foot of it. It takes another nudge from Elrond, but eventually I do start unpacking. To my utter surprise, the trunk is already occupied by several sets of clothing, tied together with silk ribbon, and a folded note. If it were not for the fact that the parchment had my name written on it, I would have been perfectly happy to leave all well enough alone. Unfortunately, pretending I hadn’t seen it at this point would be impossible.

I recognize the tight, neat script even without the signature at the bottom. It takes several deep breaths before I am able to even read it, and by the end my stomach feels like it is trying to crawl out my throat.

_Makalaurë,_

_Welcome to Caras Gadhon. I know you probably do not want to be here, but I promise your stay here will not be nearly as bad as you are imagining. Elrond is right when he says I wish no ill upon you. Celeborn and I both agree that you have suffered more than enough to redeem you for your past deeds. You have been given the opportunity to start over with a new life; whatever you were before is dead and gone, and it will not be resurrected here._

_I took the liberty of having some new outfits made for you, as a show of good intent, I suppose. Elrond expressed to me your habits of keeping no finery in your wardrobe, and I would see that change. A new life this may be, but you are still my family, and the father of the Lord of Imladris, and I would have you appear as such, at least while you are here. Please wear the top one with the silver embroidery to dinner tonight, I would rather you not look homeless when I formally introduce you to my husband. I seem to recall you being fond of the color blue._

_Forever your cousin,_

_Artanis_

I have half a mind to throw myself out the window, as it now seems the only possible way to avoid dinner. The note is neatly refolded and set aside, and there are several deep breaths again before I dare to examine the contents of the trunk more closely.

Unfortunately, it is just as I feared: All are garments fit for a prince, all silk and velvet, fine furs and silver and gold embellishments. I shake my head, frowning as I set my rather plain and faded clothing in the trunk beside the stack of finery. The first bundle of clothing is, as described, made up of various shades of blue and silver, although the shirt is a shade so light that it looks almost white instead. I shake my head again. So much for blending in.

_“Maglor? Everything alright in—well that’s… fancy.”_

Of course, Elrond would walk in right as I’ve laid everything out on the bed. I don’t try to explain, aside from a single phrase, instead passing him the note so that he may read it himself.

“It would appear I have been invited to dinner.”

He takes a moment to read, then reread the note. When he finishes, he glances between me and the outfit spread out before him, several times, before nodding.

_“Well… I was going to spare you the trauma of dinner and have some food sent to you here if you wished it, but I think this will be better regardless. If you can get all of the formalities out of the way today, then you’ll be free to sulk for the rest of the week.”_

I give him a tired scowl. His logic is sound, true, but I am still not fond of the notion. Nor am I fond of the clothing. I grumble, hanging the fur-lined cloak that was wrapped up with the outfit on the hook by the door.

“She seeks to dress me up like the nobility I no longer am.”

_“She wants to honor you as her cousin. Not a son of Fëanor. There is a difference.”_

“Look at it, Elrond! It may as well scream my presence to the world!”

_“I do believe that is the point, in a way.”_

“It has far too many clasps… I’ll never get it on by myself.”

_“I’m sure Brí would love to help you with that. In fact, when I tell her you’re coming to dinner with us, I’m sure she’ll insist on that and doing your hair.”_

I descend into wordless grumbling, deflated and defeated, after that. There is no point in arguing, apparently.

Evening comes around far too quickly for my liking, and by the time Celebrían is finished fussing over my appearance, I look more like my father’s son than I have in thousands of years. It makes me want to light myself on fire, but resurrecting this stately mien seems to have also resurrected the instinct to appear in control at all costs. Frankly, that mentality has been dead since even before I tossed the last Silmaril, and I am unsure if I am pleased at its return.

This all feels so very wrong.

Before we even reach the dining hall, I feel exhausted enough to fall asleep where I stand, though I doubt I look it. This time there is no hiding from those we pass, although whether their glances are curious or accusatory, it is hard to say. I try not to look back at them, but there is only so far I can keep my head down before I wager all of the decorative pins Celebrían put in my hair will start falling out. Heavens forbid I lose one of them.

Elrond’s fingertips brush against the back of my hand, and I nearly jump out of my skin. His eyes are sympathetic, and he gives my hand a squeeze before turning his head in the direction we are both facing. When I mirror his action, what I see makes my heart drop out of my chest, and I can feel the color draining from my face.

Artanis.

She stands as regal as ever, still a full head taller than me, although I would not have expected that to change, even after so great a time. If anything, her radiance has become even more blinding than it was last I saw her, even when the rest of our family has diminished to little more than memory. At her side is Celeborn, a lord in his own right, I know, but placed adjacent to my cousin he just appears … plain.

There are greetings on both sides, but I do not listen to any of them, suddenly fascinated by one of the rings on my fingers, or perhaps I am only pretending. It feels so strange to be wearing jewelry again. In the corner of my eye, I can see Celebrían giving her mother a hug. I feel dizzy, like my head will come off of my shoulders and float away into the night at any moment. I turn my head too fast when my name is called, and that is a mistake. My vision swims, and I feel like I need to sit down, wearing too many layers, all suffocating, crushing, too heavy…

_“Welcome to Lothlórien, Maglor.”_

I can’t. I try a deep breath, straighten my posture. Can’t let them know, can’t show weakness, this is statecraft, you know how this works.

“Artanis.”

I can’t quite meet her eyes, those piercing blue icicles that can stab straight to your heart if you let them. I manage to look at the shoulder of her gown, intricate lace and silver accents, white, always white in color.

_“I am glad to see you made it safely.”_

Her tone is softer, but I still cannot look at her face. I almost want to think I can see her smiling.

_“This is my husband, Celeborn.”_

I incline my head to him, and he does the same in greeting. His face is rounder than I would have expected it to be, but at least I can look at it without being crushed by my past. His voice is cleaner, friendlier than I would have expected. It doesn’t drip with the power and influence that his wife’s does.

_“We are pleased you could make it for dinner. Galadriel informed me that you might feel too unwell to join us, but I am happy that is not the case.”_

Galadriel? Is that what she goes by these days?

“I was under the impression that attending dinner was not exactly optional.”

I do not even have to look at my cousin to see the smirk on her face. A lifetime of feeling it on me has engrained it into my memory so deeply I doubt I will ever forget it.

Elrond’s hand rests in the small of my back, pressing me forward and I let him guide me where he will. I swallow thickly, trying to keep my sour stomach under control. The thought of dinner causes it to roil even more, and my urge to flee is growing by the second.

It is better once we are seated at the dinner table. Not the nausea, no, that increases tenfold. But the dizziness, at least, eases a bit. I blink several times, and my son smiles at me from across the table. He sits beside Celeborn, and Celebrían is beside me, between myself and her mother. I would not say it to her face, but I am grateful for the little distance she adds between us.

The chatter goes on.

Celeborn asks how the children are. Celebrían compliments her mother’s hair pin. Elrond discusses hunting with Celeborn. The ladies chat about changing fashion trends. On and on and on, although my cousin speaks far less than I would have expected of her. Perhaps time has mellowed her, much as it has for me.

The meal is had, and I do my best to eat what I’m served, but in the end, it looks like I barely touched it. All I want is some plain broth and some bread, something easy on the stomach, but this is a celebration, after all, a holiday, and there is a rich feast laid out before me in accordance with that principle. The roast goose is far too rich, and the seasoned root vegetables burn my mouth. There are dense, sweet dinner rolls, potatoes with thick gravy, and an unending amount of small fruit tarts that Celebrían keeps adding to my plate. She knows I will eat them, since I always steal them off of Elrond’s plate when we have them at home. He doesn’t like them anyway.

The others, luckily, seem content to ignore my lack of appetite, at least for the moment. Occasionally, Celebrían’s hand finds its way to my knee. I know she is trying to be comforting, but really, I want nothing more than to climb into bed and forget the whole night.

Alas, it is not to be.

Even after the food is gone and our plates our empty, the chatter continues. I keep myself sitting straight in my chair, knowing that if I get comfortable I will fall asleep. At least if I sit upright and fall asleep, it might give the illusion of paying attention, although I doubt anyone present cares if I’m listening to their conversation about equine breeding stock. That reminds me, I’ll have to check in with Elrohir on Star-Sailor’s line…

_“Maglor? Maglor!”_

I blink, and the leafy ceiling of the dining hall materializes before me, framing the very concerned face of my son. Wait a moment…

_“You fell out of your chair.”_

_“You scared us half to death!”_

Celebrían scolds me from where she kneels nearby, collecting hair pins off the floor. No doubt they flew off when I fell. So much for keeping them in place.

“Sorry…”

I move to peel myself off of the floor, but Elrond holds me in place.

“… can I please get up?”

_“Not until I know why you fell out of your chair.”_

I give him an unamused look, then attempt again to rise, and this time he lets me up.

“I barely slept last night, and I’ve been traveling all day, and I’m tired. Is that good enough for you?”

He at least has the decency to look sheepish, but he still reaches for me as I grab the edge of the table and haul myself to my feet. My legs tremble, but only for a moment, and I give my son another glare when he tries to help. I do not need him making excuses for me or doting over me like a mother hen.

_“Perhaps we ought to retire for the night…”_

I want to scowl again, but there is nothing I want more right now than to go to bed.

_“Agreed. Elrond, Celebrían, we will see you tomorrow. And… Maglor?”_

Against my better judgement, I glance upward toward my cousin, though I can still only look to her shoulder.

_“You are welcome to join us.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively: You can dress a Noldo up and bring him to dinner, but you can't make him enjoy it.


	9. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor fights with the cold every winter, until aid comes in the form of midnight gifts and unconventional solutions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, but the last one was longer, and I think the next one will be longer too.

It is seldom cold enough in Imladris for snow, even in the dead of winter. But somehow, even from early in autumn and into late spring, the chill seeps into the bones of my maimed arm and causes it to ache intensely. Elrond tells me that the pain is only left over from what my hand might have felt, that the nerves in my arm still think it is attached and cold. He says there is nothing he can do about it.

Most days, it is enough to keep me indoors and near enough a fire that sometimes I wonder if I might burn yet again if I get too close. Unfortunately, the fire is seldom enough to warm me, and I still cocoon myself in blankets and clothing and shiver as one wracked with fever. It is those days that Elrond spends constantly hovering, feeling my forehead for the fever that is never there. Perhaps if there was, I might feel a bit better about the constant shivering, but alas it is not to be. Instead, I shake like the leaves of a young aspen in a storm, freezing in spite of the roaring fire and mountain of blankets.

When I ask him why I am like this, Elrond can only give me a shrug and say it is probably due to the time I spent near death. Again, he says there is nothing he can do about it.

It is late, and I have spent the whole day in this chair, trying to soak up as much heat as I can without getting so near the hearth that it sets me ablaze. I know it is a futile endeavor, but it is all I can do. With the quilts I have stacked on top of me, I doubt I could move even if I tried, but still I shiver and still my arm hurts and still I can do nothing about it.

I am tired, but I know that the night will hold no rest for me. The best I have managed for the past week is a light doze, always on the cusp of sleep, shifting between dreams and waking so quickly and frequently it has become impossible to tell them apart.

It is not surprising, then, that I dismiss the figure that approaches me as yet another meaningless half-dream. Alabaster skin framed by dark wavy locks, long and thick. She looks like Lúthien. Delicate fingers peel back the blankets and extract my aching arm, rolling my sleeve back and exposing the frigid skin. It might have worsened the chill, if I thought it was at all possible.

I blink, sluggishly, unconvinced now that this is a dream and not reality.

_“I made something for you, Grandfather.”_

I blink again, and the image of Lúthien dissolves, leaving my young granddaughter kneeling before me, gently holding the stump of my arm and wrapping it in soft, quilted fabric.

_“Mama helped me with it, she said your arm is always cold in the winter, so I wanted to make a blanket to keep it warm.”_

I am too close to the edge of sleep to speak coherently, but I sigh as she tucks my arm back under the stack of quilts. The beginnings of a smile tug at my mouth, and I think I see her smiling back, but it is hard to tell with how the shadows fall across her face.

_“Arwen, what are you doing out of bed?”_

My gaze turns to the doorway, where my son stands, clearly failing in his attempt to look menacing. 

_“Grandfather was cold, and I wanted to help.”_

He seems to give her a thoughtful look.

_“A noble endeavor, but perhaps one that should wait until morning?”_

_“He couldn’t sleep, he needed help now.”_

The look he gives her is one I seem to remember giving him quite a lot when he was little, the look that comes with raising a child who is far too perceptive for their own good, one you hesitate to scold because they are right and you don’t want to discourage compassion but at the same time, bedtime means bedtime, and I know you wanted to help Uncle Maedhros, but—

I blink as a gentle kiss is placed on my temple, and Elrond leads his daughter by the hand, out the door and back to bed.

_“Good night, Grandfather.”_

This time, my tired smile meets no resistance.

“Good night, Arwen.”

Somehow, the addition of that small quilted blanket around my arm has made all the difference in the world. I still quiver with the cold, but for the moment, at least, the ache in my stump is more manageable than it has been since the end of summer. I do not pretend to understand how or why, but I am content to simply settle for the absence of pain.

It is not so difficult to find sleep after that. I am still cold, but the chill does not bite with teeth as sharp now, and I am tired enough to ignore it. This is the most comfortable I have felt in months. With a final sigh, I close my eyes and give myself up to dreams.

I do not stir again until the very early morning, when familiar fingertips brush a strand of hair from my face and tuck it behind my ear.

“Elr…”

_“Shhhh.”_

Strong arms lift me from the chair and I whine as frigid air rushes under the blankets. But, the exhaustion accumulated through weeks of barely sleeping keeps me from caring too much that my son is toting me out of the room like a sack of grain. At least his stride is even and smooth, and I am not overly uncomfortable for it. In fact, I am halfway asleep again already…

_“Is he falling asleep again already?”_

_“Probably. He barely moved when I picked him up, but it isn’t terribly surprising either.”_

I grunt as I’m settled in warm, soft sheets, tucked in with more blankets and encased in blessed heat. I sigh with the relief it brings, and manage to peel open one eye, though only halfway. What I see is an unfamiliar ceiling, and not much else, until Elrond’s hand settles on the blankets covering my chest, and I turn my head towards him.

_“Go back to sleep, Maglor.”_

He lays beside me, sidled up as close as he physically can, looking like he’s about to fall asleep himself. A glance to my other side shows Celebrían to be in much the same state, glued to my side with her hand gently resting on my shoulder, although she is clearly already asleep.

One hand slips under the blankets and snakes around my waist, while the fingers of the other weave between my own. I return my half-lidded gaze to my son, who seems to have gotten closer, if that were even possible. Normally I might push him away, but I am far too tired, and he is far too warm. The shared heat of the three of us chases away the chill and leaves me comfortable and drowsy.

Against my better judgement, I settle down, resting my head on Elrond’s shoulder, and yawn. I feel like a cat in a sunbeam, warm and happy. I’m not entirely sure about how I feel being sandwiched between my son and his wife in their bed, but at this point, I am too tired to care.

It is not difficult, now, to find the rest I so desperately need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many elves does one require for it to be considered a "pile"? Because I feel like three is the answer here. 
> 
> Three elves for an elf pile.


	10. Reconcile in Freefall III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is angry and Maglor learns to fly, which lands him in a rather unpleasant situation involving an old elf with a grudge and a power complex.

I wake to light rain pattering on the glass ceiling, after dreaming yet again of falling. The flet is empty, save myself and the two Galadhrim posted outside the front door. I only feel a little bad for them, considering both stand under the eaves, and there are plenty of leaves above them to provide shelter as well. Besides, they are probably used to it, living in trees and all that.

There is a note on the table, next to a covered bowl, both of which I know to be from Elrond, but I read the note anyway and am not proven wrong.

_Celebrían and I have gone to meet with Galadriel. Please, for the love of the Valar, eat something._

_-Elrond_

I uncover the bowl to reveal still-warm oatmeal with peach slices laid atop it. Difficult to resist on a normal day but, having eaten little in the way of dinner the night before, nearly impossible now. Reluctantly, I sit down and fill my stomach, if only to placate its incessant gurgling at the sight of warm food.

With the bowl clean, I turn to wandering around the flet, for lack of anything better to do. I don’t dare go outside, not until the rain has stopped at least. Even with the canopy of leaves overhead, I do not like being out in the rain these days. It has a way of bringing up bad memories. Still, there is only so much entertainment to be had from pacing around the largely empty rooms, staring at the same artwork and floral arrangements all morning, and so as soon as the rain stops, I am out on the landing enjoying the newly released sunshine.

I am beginning to wonder if I should have packed my own bags, instead of forcing Elrond into it, so that at least I might have a book to read or something. But alas, such is not the case. I am sure there is some sort of library around here that I could borrow material from, but I am also reluctant to stray very far from the flet, both for fear of being recognized and fear of being lost. The last thing I want is to have to ask for directions in a city I am only questionably welcome in.

I dislike that there are no rails on any of the stairs or platforms in this place, although I suppose those raised here would find them silly and unnecessary. Still, I would like to have something to lean against while I bask in the sun. There is a bench nearby, but it is still covered in small puddles of rainwater, and much though I would like to, I am certain my cousin would have my head if I used the fine cloak she sent me to sop it up. So I do the best I can, folding my arms across my chest and trying not to lean too far forward, although it is difficult, given that the warm sun seems to be making me ever more sleepy.

My eyes fly open as something slams straight into my back. I stumble forward, trying to find purchase on the rain-slicked wooden platform and failing, my arms bracing for impact when I know none will come.

I am standing too close to the edge.

It is with sudden horror that I realize my dream is becoming reality.

There is nothing to stop me from tumbling over the edge of the landing, and I feel time slowing as I fall. There are precious few branches in my path of descent, and the ones that I do not hit and bounce off of, I attempt to grab with my remaining hand. I miss all save one, but my grip upon it instantly fails when the sudden stop feels like my arm is being torn off, causing every joint in that limb to snap and pop.

Fiery pain shoots through my shoulder and I cry out when my body slams into another thick branch. My eyes water with the air that screams past, and I barely have time to think that I’ve run out of branches to grab before I connect with the mossy ground. All I can feel is a crushing ache that seeps through my whole body before my consciousness flees, and I am left broken and bloodied between the roots of the mallorn.

-

_“He’s coming around.”_

_“Give him something to bite down on, this is going to hurt.”_

The edge of a belt is shoved into my mouth, but I do not have the time to spit it out before I am screaming around it for the pain in my arm. It is over in but a minute, but the ache lingers in the joint of my shoulder, and I feel like I am being stabbed in the chest with each breath.

_“Can you wiggle your feet for me?”_

I try, although why in the world I’m being asked to do such a thing eludes me.

_“Good, his back isn’t broken.”_

I blink back tears as far too many hands pull me upright and make the forest floor tilt and waver erratically. They seem intent on getting me walking, and though I can support my own weight well enough, I find myself struggling just to breathe deep enough to keep from losing consciousness again.

_“He needs a real healer, I’m just a field medic. I’ve reduced his shoulder, but I think he might have broken some bones in the fall, and I don’t have the supplies here to—”_

I quit listening. There is too much to focus on when my entire body aches and I cannot even breathe without pain. There are people on either side of me, practically holding me up as I attempt to walk. At least my legs seem to be functional, although the dimming at the edges of my vision is worrisome. In one unfortunate step, I fail to pick my feet up far enough, and trip over a stray rock. The sensation of falling is more than enough to send me straight back into unconsciousness.

-

I am in far less pain when I wake. The ache in my shoulder is there, but it is manageable now that I am not being dragged through town, and the stabbing in my chest is now only mildly uncomfortable. My eyes feel sore and crusty, like I’ve been crying, though I don’t remember doing anything of the sort.

_“Maglor, Maglor, what are we going to do with you.”_

I try to open my eyes, but they seem to be stuck shut.

_“That medic who brought you in was astonished a fall from that height did not kill you.”_

There is something wrong about that voice, something in the timbre of it. I try to move, try to reach my hand up to my face and pick off whatever glue is holding my eyes shut, but I find that I cannot. Not even my legs will answer my pleas for motion, completely unresponsive.

_“But you and I know better, don’t we, Maglor?”_

Fear settles in my gut, and my breaths come in shorter and shorter gasps as fingernails drag across my cheek.

_“It is magnificent, no? Designed it myself, actually.”_

The sinister tone does nothing to calm my nerves.

_“Makes every muscle in the body as limp as a dead fish, without impairing lungs or heart.”_

I try to scream, but all I do is force air out of my mouth.

_“Now, now, that won’t do anyone any good. Just lie still while I have my fun, and I think we’ll both be happier with the outcome.”_

I do not like this, not in the slightest. My efforts to move in any capacity increase a thousand-fold, but the result is the same; I cannot even twitch my pinky finger.

_“You do not remember me, I imagine. Fêrion is my name. It was of course, back in the First Age when last we met, and I myself was only an elfling at the time.”_

I try screaming again, to no avail.

_“But, of course, that didn’t stop your men from killing my parents right in front of me.”_

I can hear the sound of a whetstone on steel, and my breath catches in my throat.

_“I grew up parentless, alone, all thanks to the actions of you and your family. If you had any idea the suffering you’ve caused…”_

Tears stream down my face, and the cold bite of steel settles under my jaw, just teasing the skin there.

 _“You know, I think I rather like having you like this. Quiet, compliant,_ vulnerable _. I could kill you right now. No one would find you here for quite some time. The other healers believe you’re resting, and not to be disturbed. Your mongrel whelp won’t be through with his meetings until late tonight. I could slit your throat and be gone before anyone was the wiser.”_

Remarkably, I manage to create a strangled moan when the steel of his knife nicks the flesh of my throat.

_“Quiet, you. Or I’ll gut you now.”_

I can hear raised voices, muffled, behind a door or a wall. Someone is shouting, and my captor appears to have gone silent. I can barely breathe as is, but the tension bleeding through from the other room feels like it’s choking me.

_“Let me through!”_

The door bursts open, and chaos rushes in.

_“What are you doing?! Get away from him!”_

The knife that was previously at my throat clatters to the floor.

_“I am a surgeon, I can explain!”_

_“I think not.”_

_“Elrond?”_

I did not recognize the sound of my son’s voice through his anger, but Celebrían’s is easy to pick out in the din. She stands close to me, and she holds my hand as she wipes the tears from my cheeks with a spare cloth. I wish that I could squeeze her hand, give her some sign that I know she is there, but all I can manage are more tears.

_“What’s wrong?”_

_“He isn’t moving.”_

_“At all?”_

_“At all.”_

Elrond’s hands are everywhere at once, feeling my neck, my face, behind my head, arms, shoulders, anywhere he can reach. I would have hissed when his fingertips brushed over the fresh cut at my throat, if I could. He takes my hand in his, and they feel clammy with fear. Are they shaking…?

_“Maglor, if you can hear me, I need you to squeeze my hand.”_

_“He won’t.”_

I hear my son hiss, and I can hear Fêrion almost cackling.

_“He can’t. He's paralyzed, comatose. Snapped his neck in the fall. I don’t wager he’ll ever wake up, not completely.”_

Elrond squeezes my hand so hard it makes the joints pop. It hurts almost as much as my shoulder, now, and I would tell him to stop, if I could.

_“Out. Now.”_

My son’s voice is ice, sharp and cold like frozen steel. I almost shiver.

_“I can attempt to repair the damage, as I was intending to before you so rudely—”_

_“I said get out!”_

I almost feel Celebrían shrink beside me, and I am regrettably grateful when her gentler grasp replaces Elrond’s vice. He is a seething vat of anger and fear, I can feel it coming off of him in waves. He sighs, and I can hear defeat now as well. There is far too much silence, now that Fêrion has been chased off.

_“He is lying.”_

_“The surgeon?”_

_“He is no surgeon.”_

His voice drips with venom.

_“Then the elf who pretended to be a surgeon.”_

She speaks calmly and evenly, their usual roles reversed. How many times have I seen him soothe her ruffled feathers with no more than a few words and a well-placed kiss?

_“Yes, he is lying. I do not know why Maglor will not stir, but his neck is not broken, I can tell you that much. If it were, he would not be breathing without aid right now.”_

_“That’s good. Now, what do we do to bring him back?”_

_“I don’t know!”_

_“Elrond.”_

The only response she receives is frustrated silence. I take as deep a breath as I can and let it out long and slow. I do not like being stuck like this, my body frozen in time at the mercy of others, but the panic of earlier is dissolving away, like sugar in hot tea. I feel better having my son nearby, even if he is sulking. Mute as I am, Celebrían continues to be his voice of reason.

_“We should probably treat whatever injuries he has, correct?”_

_“… yes.”_

_“And then bring him back to the flet and make sure he is comfortable?”_

_“Yes.”_

His hands are back, this time slow and thorough as he feels me for injuries. He cleans the cut at my throat, placing two neat sutures in the wound to keep it closed. It hurts, but I can do nothing about it but try to breathe through it. The same is true when Celebrían holds me upright so that he can bind my chest with gauze bandages, holding my apparently shattered ribcage together. The grinding of bone-on-bone is disconcerting, but better than having them heal poorly.

I cannot even keep my head from lolling to the side when Elrond lifts me in his arms and carries me away. The remainder of the night is largely a blur, made of gentle sounds and textures that all blend together and leave me feeling tired and sore.

Soft sheets and blankets rolled against my sides to cradle my body and keep me from falling out of bed.

Quiet murmuring from an adjacent room, can’t make out the words, can’t make out the voices, but there are… three? No, four of them.

A warm quilt tucked around my unmoving form, and a tender kiss on my brow. I can only wonder who it was, as I am asleep soon after.

Come morning, things are better. I am still weak, shaky and tired, but I can at least manage turning over onto my side without aid. My eyes are still sticky, and I ache all over. I can hear people talking outside my room, though their voices are too quiet to really make out.

Slowly but surely, I push myself upright, sitting on the edge of my bed and rubbing the ick out of my eyes. I pull on the nearest robe I can reach, luckily not one of the fancier ones, and shuffle out to the shared living space. Elrond and Celebrían are there, as are Artanis and Celeborn. I say nothing to them, although all four seem to stare at me as I practically collapse into the chair beside my son, who has looked ready to leap out of his skin since the moment I entered the room.

_“Good morning, Maglor.”_

Artanis, at least, looks cheerful.

“Morning.”

_“Would you like some breakfast? We weren’t sure when you would wake, so we saved you some.”_

I give Celebrían a tired smile and accept the bowl she holds out to me. Lo and behold, it contains the same peaches and oatmeal of the day previous. It is slow going, due to the pain in my shoulder, but I diligently finish the whole serving while the conversation continues around me.

Elrond still looks like he’s sitting on a porcupine and takes the first chance he gets at the conclusion of their conversation to speak.

_“How are you feeling, Maglor?”_

I shrug first, taking a moment to sort out my thoughts.

“My shoulder hurts and I’m tired. But I’m awake and moving now, which I do believe is a marked improvement over last night.”

His first reaction is concern, and nothing short of what I expected.

_“You shoulder? What happened to your shoulder?”_

“It was pulled out of place when I fell. I tried to catch myself on a branch.”

He frowns, and I roll my eyes when he gets straight to work prodding the joint in question.

“It’s fine now, just sore. It was put back place before I was even peeled off the ground.”

_“It should be in a sling—”_

“Stop hovering!”

He backs off, for the moment at least, until Celebrían speaks up.

_“Mother, Father, would it be alright if we stayed for a few days longer than we planned? It might be best to give Maglor some time to recover.”_

_“I agree!”_

I scowl at the both of them, my son pointedly avoiding my gaze and his wife completely ignoring me.

_“I think that would be fine.”_

“I don’t!”

_“Maglor, your ribs are in literal pieces. The only way you could make the ride back to Imladris in this state is drugged to oblivion and riding with me so that you do not faint from pain and fall off your horse!”_

“Son, this is far from the worst pain I’ve felt in my life, I assure you I can ride perfectly well, even with broken ribs and a bad shoulder!”

_“No, you can’t! You might have been able to once before, but not anymore! You aren’t a warlord anymore, Maglor!”_

His words sting, finding their way straight to my chest, burning as they remind me of my own vulnerability. He’s right, though. I’m not the elf I used to be, I don’t have the strength I once possessed, I’m just a shell of what I used to be. The reminder causes me to stammer, stumbling over my words until my angry, frustrated response materializes.

“Fine!”

I spit the syllable out like a sour cherry pit, standing in the same breath and heading for the door to my bedroom. I would storm out of the flet, if I could, but I know that I would not make it far. Too tired, too weak. Besides, I would rather sulk in my bed than risk another flying lesson. I am unsure if I could survive another one so soon after the first.

I grumble like a petulant child, tossing back the blankets and burrowing as far under them as I can manage. My ribs protest at the sudden changes in orientation, and it takes no small amount of time to find even a semi-comfortable position, but eventually I settle, now alone with my thoughts. At least it is better than Elrond’s constant hounding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this was going to be the last installment in this arc, but boy was I wrong. There will be one more. Only one, though.


	11. Crushed Daisies in Her Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some battles even the greatest healer of Middle Earth cannot win, and accepting that truth is its own kind of battle.

“Elrond, look at me.”

He doesn’t. I know that he won’t, he is too stubborn to. He thinks he can fix the world if he just tries hard enough, if he can just hold on longer, outlast whatever he fights, but he can’t. That isn’t how life works. But he’s too stubborn to see it, too stubborn to let go, too upset to let her go.

I catch his hands, stop his agitated pacing, but he won’t meet my gaze. There are tears in his eyes. He shakes, anger, fear, resentment, despair. It has built for weeks now, finally boiling over and coming to a head. The helplessness and sorrow he has denied the existence of for so long is about to overwhelm him. The dam is breaking, I can see the cracks. He is breaking.

“Elrond.”

He doesn’t pull away from me, and I take it as a good sign. Yesterday he would have thrown me halfway across the room.

“Look at me.”

We are locked in a standoff, of sorts. He holds his gaze squarely on the floor to my left, and I hold his hands between us, captive for the time being. I sigh, then slowly, gently embrace him. He does not return the gesture, but I do not expect him to. I hold him only lightly, as though he is made of glass, fine and delicate, making sure he does not feel he is trapped. If he needs an escape, he has it.

It is quite some time that we stand like this, but I am content to stay here with him. He needs someone with him when the break happens, when he finally accepts that he has given all he has and there is nothing more he can do. It will not be pretty, and I think, when it is over, he would rather have had me here to dry his tears than whatever unlucky advisor happens upon him when that moment comes.

It needs to happen soon. I hate seeing him suffer like this, watching the pain eat away at him like a disease without a cure.

_“She won’t let me in the room…”_

It is quiet, barely a whisper, but I hear it, and I know that it is the beginning of acceptance.

“I know.”

He leans his forehead down on my shoulder, tears already soaking through my shirt. This is not the first time my clothes have dried his tears, and by all that is right it will not be the last, not for a very long time.

_“She doesn’t even recognize me.”_

“I know.”

I want to offer him the comforting words a father should have for his grieving son, but I would not feed him lies in the hope that it will make his sorrow less bitter. I cannot tell him all will be well when it will not. It will hurt, and he will hurt, and no matter his choice, the outcome will be painful and sour. I cannot say that things will grow easier with time, because I know they will not. I’ve spent thousands of years mourning my family, and there are still some days when the grief cuts like a knife, sharp as the day they died. The only hope he has is that he might someday meet her again across the sea, but even that is not a certainty. The longer he waits, the greater grow the chances that she will never reach those shores.

I will not lie to him.

“You have to let her go, Elrond.”

_“It hurts.”_

“I know. I know. But it is the only hope she has left.”

_“If I just—”_

“No, my son.”

He sobs into my shoulder, and I just barely tighten my hold on him, bracing for the coming tide.

“This is greater than anything you can do.”

_“But I saved you!”_

Because you needed me, and I would not let myself be thrown into the Void when you needed me.

“Because I was given the choice and I chose life.”

_“She still has that choice—”_

“No. She does not. You know as well as I do that that choice was taken from her by the orcs that ambushed her in the pass. Do not lie to yourself.”

He goes quiet at that, and for a moment I worry that his heart will turn to anger, denying what he knows is truth. To my relief, his arms tentatively reach up to my shoulders as he returns my embrace. I tighten my grasp, pressing his head against my shoulder, and he clings even more.

The only sound he makes is a broken whine. Another crack in the stone holding back the tears.

“You have to let her go.”

_“It hurts.”_

I kiss the tip of his ear, and his tears come with renewed vigor. His back shudders with repressed sobs, and I wish he would just let them out. The sooner he accepts the sorrow the sooner he can heal.

“I know. But ask yourself this, Elrond: Which will hurt more, sending her across the sea in the hopes that you will hold your wife again when you join her in Aman, or watching her suffer here and die from an illness even you cannot cure?”

He shifts uncomfortably in my arms and lets out a shaky sigh.

That is the moment when the dam breaks. The sobs come in waves, his tears soak through my shirt in minutes, flowing without stop as he trembles in my arms. He screams, the pain and fear ripping from his throat with intensity born from holding everything back for so long.

I’ve told him before that it would hurt less if he did not keep it hidden.

_“What’s going—”_

I give the intruding Erestor a glare like none other, and he stops in his tracks at the sight of us. Without another word, he steps right back out the door, closing it behind him.

I do not think Elrond even notices, he is so consumed by his grief.

There are, thankfully, no more disruptions after that, likely due to some word of Erestor’s. I will have to thank him later, but for the moment, I simply focus on comforting my son.

Eventually, his forlorn cries subside, as do his sobs, leaving in their wake sniffles and hiccups. He seems to consider pulling away from me, but inevitably only clings tighter to me. His voice is quiet and even when he finally speaks.

_“This will not be the last time I have to make this decision.”_

I do not want to know what he means by that statement, and I do not like the resignation in his voice. But there is resolve in it. I think he is ready to make the choice he needs to. If that damnable foresight is what gives him the courage to act, then let it be so. There is nothing I can say to make things easier, but I hold him steady when he wavers, if nothing else.

_“I have to let her go.”_

I nod, rubbing his back.

“Do you want me to make the arrangements? I can work with Erestor to make it happen.”

He seems hesitant, and I understand why. He does not want to give up control, but right now he needs to take care of himself and his wife. They both need every ounce of comfort they can get.

_“No, I…”_

He sighs, trailing off and, I hope, rethinking his answer.

_“Please, if you would.”_

I sigh, giving a relieved smile.

_“Can you… check on her for me?”_

The smile falters, and my brows knit together in thought. I understand why he asks, although I also know that there is every chance she will send me from the room as well. Still, I nod.

“I will try.”

He nods back, and we release each other. He sighs, deep and heavy, looking completely and utterly exhausted. I watch his gaze turn to his desk, piled high with the never-ending stacks of paperwork that await his review. I decide to intervene before he does something he regrets.

“Go to bed, Elrond. Have a nap, you need it.”

_“Maglor, I don’t know if I can—”_

“Use my bed, then. I understand if you can’t use yours, if it reminds you of her.”

_“I… thank you.”_

He looks like a shambling corpse as he walks, making his way toward my room. I doubt he’ll actually sleep, but if he can at least get some rest, I think he will feel better, perhaps think a bit clearer.

It is my turn to sigh, now that my son has gone to rest, and I make my way out the door and down the hallway to Celebrían’s room. She hasn’t been in their shared room since her return, and I know exactly why. It is far less common a thing these days, what she suffered, but in the days of the First Age it was an almost constant occurrence.

“Celebrían?”

I greet her tentatively as I ease open the door. Her bed is empty, but I know she is still here. I can hear her ragged breathing from where she cowers on the other side of the bed, sandwiched between the frame and the wall. I cross the room, and her wide, fearful eyes stare up at me.

“It’s Maglor.”

There is no recognition in her gaze. I sigh, sitting cross-legged several feet away from her, giving her as much space as I can. I know it is probably a futile effort, but if I can get her to speak…

“Elrond is worried about you.”

There is no response for several minutes. It is unsurprising, as she has been almost completely nonverbal since the twins brought her back. I miss her old fire, passionate and feisty, bearing the determination of her mother, and the noble grace of her father. I miss seeing her give love to my son, holding him when he needs her support and drawing him out of his self-imposed isolation when he forgets there is a world beyond his work.

Elrond is right. It hurts to see her like this.

I frown, watching and waiting for her to come out, to say something, anything, but all I see is an empty shell. She needs to sail, and soon, otherwise we may never get her back. I know my son is reluctant to let her go alone, but his work here is far from done. He still as his three children to care for, not to mention an entire valley that relies on him for leadership and protection (although he will always say that is Erestor’s job, we all know the truth). He will have to trust that she will be taken care of when she arrives there. If we can even get her on the ship in time.

_“Maglor? What are you doing here?”_

I look over my shoulder to find Erestor in the doorway, bearing another tray of food that will likely go uneaten, just like the last several. She is running out of time, and we both know it.

“Elrond asked me to check on her after I sent him to bed.”

_“Is that what I walked in on? I’m surprised he let you.”_

“Yes, and I didn’t exactly give him a choice. Besides, he looked like he was about to collapse where he stood, otherwise.”

He snorts, setting the tray down on the nightstand, replacing the one left previously. It is a ritual we do three times a day, always offering the food we know will never be taken. Still, we try.

_“He’s been pushing himself too hard.”_

“He’s trying to fight a battle he cannot win.”

_“And refusing to believe he cannot win it.”_

“I think he’s coming around to the idea, though.”

_“You think?”_

I give him a wry smile and point to the damp patch on my shoulder.

“He’s allowed me the responsibility of arranging passage for her. I told him I would consult you on the matter.”

Erestor sighs, deep and heavy, and looks like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders at the news.

_“He really said that?”_

I nod.

“After he finished spilling every tear he could, yes. I think he’s finally realizing that this is her best chance at healing. At least for the moment. I’m hoping we can get matters in order before he changes his mind.”

_“I agree. I hate to go behind his back like this, but at this point I am afraid to let him dwell too long on it, lest we lose both of them in the same year. I would hate to see what it would do to him if we lost Celebrían to Mandos.”_

“I agree.”

I groan, pushing myself off the ground, and only sparing a glance toward Celebrían. She hasn’t moved this whole time, and I don’t anticipate she will even consider it until the two of us are long gone. We are running out of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I just started the next multi-part arc? Maybe. We'll see.


	12. Reconcile in Freefall IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonds are formed over hair braiding and making fun of Elrond, and Maglor finally gets his wish.

Eventually, I relent and allow Elrond to bind my shoulder in a sling. It doesn’t help with the pain, but it makes him happy, and with the amount of hovering he has taken to since my fall, I’ve found it is far better to appease him than to fight. He’s hardly let me out of sight since.

The most frightening part? He’s taken to going nowhere unarmed, even within the walls of the flet.

It makes me nervous.

The next few days pass much the same, waking midmorning and being fed whatever breakfast has been saved for me before being nearly tackled by my son the minute I’ve finished. He unbinds my shoulder, stretches the joint, and prods every bruised and broken rib in my chest before trussing me back up like a holiday ham and giving me medicine for the pain. And then, he does it all again every night after dinner.

It is… tedious, to say the least, especially having my singular functional hand bound to my chest. It has taken what little independence I have regained since losing the other one, and more often than not I feel almost grateful that the medicine causes me to sleep through most of the day and night. It saves me from becoming frustrated at my helplessness, unable to even feed or dress myself, and being totally reliant on my son and his wife.

_“Come on, up you get.”_

I grunt as Celebrían pulls me upright out of bed. It is late afternoon, and I have, once again, drowsed through most of the day. Elrond of course says I need my rest so that I can heal, but I feel like it’s entirely impossible to find any peace in this place. I’ve forgotten how many days it’s been, even since the fall, let alone how long we’ve been here. I knew I should have stayed at home.

It is an exercise in futility trying to straighten out my tunic after standing upright. It sits funny because of the bandages, and I have no hand with which to grab the hem anyway. Luckily, Celebrían has some mercy on me and does it herself without me even having to ask her. She’s gotten good at that over the past few days, reading my mind when I’m far too grouchy to communicate my needs.

I follow her out into the shared living space, where Elrond already stands holding out a teacup. I scowl, eyeing the sun through the window where it hangs low in the sky while Celebrían bundles me up in a shawl. Usually he doesn’t attempt to foist more of that blasted medicine on me until just before bedtime. He is early.

_“I have some important business to attend to tonight, Maglor. I won’t be back until very late.”_

He holds the mug out, expectantly, and I have to notice for the first time in several days that he does not have his sword at his hip. This feels like it should make me even more nervous.

_“We’re going to see my mother, remember?”_

Right. Yet another thing I’ve forgotten, perhaps intentionally though.

I turn briefly to Celebrían, who smiles by the doorway, waiting for me. I roll my eyes, and let my son tilt the contents of the teacup down my throat. I’m left smacking my lips, as usual, after the bitter taste of it. It brings to mind some obscure metaphor of hiding vile things behind delicate porcelain façades, but the specifics of it elude me.

Soon enough, I’m shepherded out the door, Celebrían at my side with her arm around my waist. There is a chill breeze in the air, and I’m grateful for my shawl as we descend the numerous steps leading to the blessed ground. I’ve grown very tired of living in a tree, and I think when I am home I will not want to be any place high up for a very long time.

Once my feet are back on solid earth, I let out a little sigh of relief. Not only am I less likely to fall to my death now, but I can also feel the all-over warmth and numbness that comes from the medicine starting to take effect. The sharp aches in my chest that have soured my mood since waking begin to dull, and I can breathe a little easier for it.

I don’t pay attention to where she takes me: it doesn’t matter anyway. I would rather stay on the ground than climb all the way back up to the flet if I had to find my way back alone. There are more people who stare as we pass, although there are fewer around in general, with it now growing into early evening. I have to wonder if any of them saw me fall.

_“Mother?”_

We’ve come to a hollow, quiet and sheltered from the noise of life and people. The ground is covered in soft green mosses and leaf litter, and there is a small stone fountain in the center of the clearing. There are clusters of flowers around that make it feel much like a garden, albeit a wild garden that has a mind of its own. I cannot help but sigh again as I follow Celebrían down the crudely paved path, finding myself more and more relaxed as we go. I do not know what it is about this place, but it feels, for lack of a better word, safe.

_“Over here, Brí.”_

I turn towards the answering voice, and there is Artanis, pruning a deep violet clematis that covers half the surface of the nearest mallorn trunk. The image reminds me instantly of a simpler time, when we were both still little more than children. The two women embrace, exchange pleasantries, and finally turn their attention to me, and I shift uneasily.

_“Good evening, Maglor.”_

“Artanis.”

_“Are you feeling better? You’re looking less stiff today.”_

“Perhaps.”

I shrug, making sure to keep some distance between us. I am still uneasy around her, even after being here for nearly a week. Even while the rest of the world diminishes, she seems to have only grown in power over the ages, and it makes me nervous in the same way Elrond walking around the house with his sword makes me nervous.

_“Will you come and sit with us? I fear it will be a long evening for you if you want to stand there and look uncomfortable the whole time.”_

I am tempted to grumble, to be defiant and say that I am just fine and do not need to sit. But at the same time, the slippery tendrils of exhaustion that always come for me are beginning to make themselves known, and sitting down sounds like a wonderful idea. The golden time between the numbing of pain and the urge to sleep is running short, it seems.

They both sit on the ground near the fountain, amid soft mosses and bright flowers, and continue to chatter about… I cannot even remember. Knitting? It is hard to say for sure. I find I do not care too much, though, as I settle down between the roots of the largest tree bordering the clearing. It is comfortable enough, but I find myself not even caring about that, only that it is something to lean against while I nap.

If the others keep talking, I do not hear them.

I dream off and on, my visions restlessly refusing to stay consistent for more than a few moments at a time. One moment I stand upon the bank of a stream that flows through a sun-kissed pine glade, my bare toes sinking into the sandy riverbed as the cool water rushes over my feet. In the next, the river turns to blood, boiling hot and flooding its banks to burn the trees around me, washing me away downstream. An instant later I lay flat on my back, staring up at a cloudless sky, resting in a calm meadow filled with deer and wildflowers. But it does not last, as fire licks at every blade of grass until the whole place is a field of ash, the wildlife reduced to charred corpses.

When I find myself again in tranquility, my back pressed against the bole of an ancient oak in a forest so old even I do not remember its beginning, I am pulled from sleep by the dragging of delicate fingers over my scalp and through my hair. I grunt when the fingers hit a snag, and there is an apology, but it is not the voice I expect.

_“Hush, Maglor. Go back to sleep.”_

I murmur sleepily, fighting toward wakefulness.

“’tanis?”

_“Yes, now go back to sleep. I am only combing out your hair.”_

“Where’s Brí?”

She sighs, apparently giving up on getting me back to sleep as she helps me sit up more. That is when I realize that the mallorn roots are gone, and I have been leaned up against my cousin’s knees while she combs through my thinning locks.

_“She’s gone to help Elrond settle some… personal… matters. They should both be returning within a few hours.”_

I hum indifferently as she continues messing with my hair. What personal matters they might have that do not involve my cousin elude me, although I suppose it might have something to do with Celeborn. Still.

“What have they gone to do?”

I know it is unlikely she will answer, but I may as well try.

_“They have gone to deal with the elf who poisoned you.”_

I frown when my fragile memory of the fall is slow to yield the information I am after.

“… Fêrion?”

_“Yes. Fêrion. Although the guard who pushed you from the tree will meet his judgement by my husband’s hand, I thought it more appropriate that Elrond be the one to mete out Fêrion’s punishment.”_

I blink, taking a moment to process all she’s said.

_“Celebrían did not want you to know, but I think it is only fair.”_

When I speak it is slow and thoughtful, so that I do not trip over my words.

“Why is my son being allowed to judge the crimes of one of your own people? Should not that duty fall to you?”

_“Ordinarily, yes, it would. The guard will be tried in a military fashion, answering for his crimes to my husband who holds command over every warrior in Lothlórien. But I thought it would be poetic for the one who calls himself a healer to answer to the greatest healer in Middle Earth.”_

“That is… surprising.”

_“I also concluded that if I did not allow him at least some say in the fool’s fate, I might end up trying my son-by-marriage for murder.”_

I don’t have to look over my shoulder to see the smirk in her voice.

“I see your sense of humor is still the very same as it was when we were children.”

_“You say that as though it is a bad thing.”_

“Well it probably isn’t a _good_ thing…”

_“Celeborn thinks its charming.”_

“Probably because he’s too afraid to say anything else.”

She at least has the decency to feign offense.

_“You wound me, cousin!”_

“Has your skin gotten so thin with time? Here I was thinking you had amassed nearly enough strength to contend with Maiar at this point!”

She giggles, jabbing her finger into my bad shoulder, though not enough to hurt me.

_“Hold still. I’m almost finished with your hair.”_

“You know I’m just going to sleep on it, right?”

_“Hush, you. If you hold still I can tie it so that it will keep its shape.”_

I frown and give her a grunt, but stay put. Whatever she is trying to get my hair to do must be very intricate with the number of small strands she pulls and tugs around.

“Why is Fêrion only just now facing judgement? It’s been several days, hasn’t it?”

_“He fled into the wood the night he poisoned you. It took some time to retrieve him, although I wager it would have taken longer if Elrond had gotten his way when he requested permission to hunt him down himself.”_

“He isn’t _that_ bad of a woodsman…”

_“Oh yes he is.”_

“… you’re right, he is.”

_“Of course I am.”_

I reach around and elbow her in the leg. She makes an exaggerated noise of pain, and I can only shake my head at her.

_“There’s the evil cousin I know, beating me up and ruining my hard work on his hair. Some things never change.”_

I sigh, resisting the temptation to make a joke about not having killed anyone yet. I’ve been trying to get away from that habit; Elrond always tells me that they make my mood sour, although I argue that my mood is usually already sour by the time those jokes come out.

“So, why did Celebrían decide to go with Elrond, then? He’s judged criminals before, it isn’t as though he needs the assistance.”

She pauses for a minute, tightening the knot in my hair one last time before giving her answer.

_“In her words, she wanted to see Fêrion run through in person.”_

“Of course she did. She is surely your daughter, through and through.”

I shake my head again, this time without chastisement from my cousin, at least. Whatever she’s done with my hair has made it feel rather floppy. I am unsure if I like it, and cannot resist the temptation to reach up and touch the delicately placed strands.

_“Don’t do that, it’ll come undone!”_

“Well I’m going to fall asleep on it soon anyway!”

_“Fine, just don’t expect me fix it! See if I ever tie your hair in a lily-braid ever again.”_

“I don’t even have enough hair for a lily-braid.”

_“You’re right. It’s far too thin to look proper.”_

We continue our banter into the evening, and then into twilight, although at some point I do manage to fall asleep again, entirely unintentionally. I only discover my slip in consciousness when I am woken by gentle fingers tapping my cheek. I peel one eye open, and immediately notice that I am, in fact, no longer propped against my cousin’s knees. Instead, it appears that my head is resting in her lap.

_“Our children are returning.”_

It feels strange to hear them referred to like that, though I suppose it is the truth. I move to push myself upright, but Artanis brings her hand to rest on my shoulder, keeping me where I lay. It is just as well; I am far too tired, and her leg is far too comfortable for me to really want to move anyway. I am almost asleep again by the time I can hear two sets of footsteps making their way into the hollow.

_“How is he?”_

Elrond speaks first, easy enough to tell, even with my eyes mostly shut.

_“Dozing. We’ve had a quiet evening.”_

“Liar. I’m positive half the wood heard you snorting with laughter.”

I can feel Celebrían smirking from across the glade.

_“I do not snort!”_

“You always have, and you always will.”

_“Quiet evening?”_

_“As quiet as it gets I suppose.”_

“May I get up now?”

With a barely audible chuckle, Artanis finally lifts her hand allows me to sit up straight. I stretch with a groan, causing my ribs to creak and grind. Luckily, I still cannot feel the pain that would usually accompany that action, at least for the moment. It still makes Elrond grimace, and I have to actually try to hide my amusement.

_“Come on, now, let’s get you tucked into bed before you break yourself again.”_

“I’m not a child, Elrond. Besides, I’ve been sleeping all day, I think I have enough energy to run a marathon.”

Of course, my cousin immediately calls me out when I yawn directly after I finish speaking.

_“Liar. If I let you lay back down you’ll be asleep again before I can list off all of the High Kings of the Noldor.”_

I scowl at her, but underneath I know she’s right. So, I don’t fight too hard when we all bid each other good night and I am shepherded off to bed.

I settle down thinking that my dreams will be dark once again, but to my surprise that is far from the case. In fact, I do not think I dream at all. It is a welcome change from the visions of falling over and over, and similar dreams of fire and destruction that seem out of place in this well-protected wood. When I wake I feel more rested than I have since leaving Imladris.

The remainder of the days we spend in Lothlórien pass quickly and easily, and I almost find myself sad when the day finally comes that Elrond unwraps my bandages and deems me healed enough for us to journey home. It isn’t so much that I do not want to return to Imladris, quite the opposite in fact. But still, it has been nice to see my cousin, and I find I am even growing to like her again, despite how much she still intimidates me.

Just as he did when we first set out, Elrond stands beside me, helping me pack my things. Although I could arguably do it myself, he tells me not to overtax my already fragile body. I am halfway tempted to flick his ear for the insult. Instead, I keep trying to sneak the fancier articles of clothing out of my bag and back into the trunk they came from. Unfortunately, my son is ever the perceptive one, and quickly returns them before scolding me.

Soon enough, we are mounted up and on our way, this time homeward bound. Goodbyes were said the night before, at dinner, luckily, and so there are no awkward farewell hugs to be had now in front of everyone come to see us off. They were horrid enough to endure in the relative privacy we were afforded for supper, I cannot imagine them being made in front of a crowd of gawking strangers.

My heart is lighter leaving Lothlórien than it was upon arrival, although my ribs certainly ache more. I’ve reestablished relations with my cousin, to an extent. At the very least, I now know that she truly does not hate me, although she will gladly tease me all day if I allow her. Elrond was right, it would seem; the trip was not so bad as I was initially imagining it would be. Aside from being pushed out of a tree, of course.

“Celebrían?”

_“Mmm?”_

“What became of Fêrion? I meant to ask.”

A wicked grin spreads across her face, and I can see a bit of her mother peeking through the glint in her eyes.

_“Well… Elrond named the crimes he was accused of, gave him a chance to defend his actions… and then promptly cut off his head.”_

Her words send me into shock, momentarily, although I regain my composure after a minute or so.

“Ah… pity you didn’t get to see him run through like you’d hoped.”

If anything, her smirk only grows.

_“Perhaps not. But I did see his head roll down the steps of the dais, and that more than made up for it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you like Sindarin? I do! Sindarin lets you give your character's names meaning. Take Fêrion, for example, whose name literally translates to "Son of a Beech". 
> 
> I regret nothing. >:D


	13. Crushed Daisies in Her Hair II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Farewells are never easy, especially when the one leaving is the one who holds your heart.

_“How are they?”_

“Both asleep, last I checked.”

_“Good.”_

I still do not care for him any more than I have in the past, but there are few others I would rather have with me on this dark journey than Glorfindel. Erestor would have come in his stead if I had begged, but we both understand that it is better for him to remain in Imladris and keep things under control at home, especially since the lord of the valley has been effectively out of commission for nearly three months now. I cannot say I blame him though. Half of his heart is dying, and no matter what he’s tried, he failed to save her.

That is why we must travel quickly. Glorfindel’s stallion sets a swift but manageable pace, and I drive the horses hauling our cart right behind them. We cannot afford to rest for longer than a few hours at a time, just enough for the horses to catch their wind, before we are off again. It would be faster without the cart, of course, but Celebrían has already been comatose for a week, and putting two riders on a single horse would be just as slow. Besides, I’m not sure if I would trust Elrond to have the strength to sit a horse without falling off at this point.

He quit eating a short time after Celebrían lost consciousness.

It has become a race to save both of their lives, and I worry it is one we have already lost. There is no telling when, or even if, she will wake up again, even if she does make it to Valinor. There is no guarantee that the ship will even make it, or if it does, if it will be too late to save her. And if she dies…

Elrond told me that he felt it in his heart when Elros finally passed from this world. All-consuming, all-encompassing, crushing and total despair. He said it was like having his soul torn to shreds and ripped from his body. I worry he will go through the same if his wife is lost, and I worry more that his spirit will not be able to handle the strain of it if he does.

And if we lose him too…

The sounds of movement from the back of the cart draw my attention, and I turn my head just in time to see Elrond blinking drowsily at me. He wears the same tired, distraught expression he’s had for the past month, and that fiery light that used to be so prominent in his eyes is dim and hazy. I wish I could take these burdens from him, but I know that there is no way for me to do so.

_“We’re almost there, aren’t we?”_

“Yes.”

_“I can taste the salt in the air.”_

“We’ll be there before sunset.”

He looks like a kicked dog.

“Do you want to come up here and sit with me? You’ve slept through most of the trip, it might be good for you to be awake for a while.”

He seems reluctant, but he does eventually clamber up and sit beside me. I drape my arm over his shoulders, and he practically glues himself to my side. I feel bad for him, I really do. But there is no more I can do for him that I have not already done. So I hold him, and I dry his tears, and I do my best to show him my love.

Soon enough, I hear the cry of gulls in the distance. It is enough to make my son bury his nose in my shoulder, and I squeeze him tighter. I know he is not ready to be parted from her, but I am afraid to wait any longer. I do not want to have to send them both across the sea.

_“Elrond?”_

Glorfindel’s countenance seems lighter than it has in days as he rides beside us, finally noticing that my son is upright and awake.

_“Glorfindel.”_

_“It’s good to see you up.”_

Elrond’s smile is minute, barely there, even, and gone in a flash, but the very fact that it did appear is enough to warm my heart. Glorfindel rides on, resuming his position ahead of the cart, and leaving my son and I in peace once again.

He clings to my shirt, and just like that, he is the frightened orphan I remember rescuing from a burning tower, all tears and tiny, scratched-up hands desperately grasping for any comfort they can reach. I lean over and press a kiss to his brow in the hopes that I can make it better like I did so many centuries ago, back when his sorrows were so easily forgotten as to be banished with a little love. Now… Now I am happy if I can only bring a little light to the darkness that suffocates him.

“I think we will need to stay in the Havens tonight, to give the horses a chance to rest.”

He nods against my shoulder, clinging tighter. I think I can feel fresh tears dampening my shawl.

_“Can the boat wait until tomorrow?”_

I frown sadly, holding him closer.

“No, love, I’m sorry. It has to sail as soon as we get there.”

His shuddering sobs are the only evidence I have of a response.

“I know, I know.”

_“I can’t have one more night with her?”_

My chest aches at the tone in his voice, pleading, begging almost, for more time with his beloved wife. I so want to give him this one thing, this closure of one more night with her, knowing it will be the last for a very long time. I have to wonder if things would have been different between myself and my own wife if we had known how long it would be before we saw each other again, if she would have granted me one last night to be close to her before being sundered from her forever.

But then again, she made it very clear that I was no longer welcome in her house when I left.

“I’m sorry, little one—”

_“Please, ‘da?”_

How long has it been since he called me that?

“Elrond…”

_“Please…”_

“She’s run out of time, little one.”

He weeps quietly for the remainder of the trip, and I think at some point he falls asleep against my shoulder. It worries me how much time he has spent sleeping, but at the same time I know firsthand exactly how exhausting grief like this can be. I can’t say I blame him.

When we arrive at the harbor, the sun hangs low in the sky and the gulls are quieting down for the night. There are plenty of people around, most loading cargo onto the waiting ship. Some are saying tearful goodbyes, bidding loved ones a safe journey across the sea. Most look like they hail from Lothlórien, and I have to wonder how many would recognize Celebrían in her current state, if any.

_“Maglor?”_

I peel my gaze from the docks to see a bearded elf beside the cart, looking somewhat anxiously up at me. I know him, I’ve seen him before, and time seems not to have so much as laid a finger on him.

“Círdan.”

He nods, then peers around me at my son, who is only just now stirring.

“Elrond, come on. We’re here.”

That is enough to get him wide awake, and he instantly sits more upright, glancing around at the harbor.

_“So soon?”_

“Yes, come on. We need to get Celebrían on board.”

He looks crestfallen, and I give his shoulder a squeeze before rising from my seat and hopping down to the ground. The look I give Círdan feels almost desperate, although I suppose it is, in a way. The shipwright follows me as I come around the back of the cart, and thankfully fills the awkward silence between us as I lift Celebrían from the pile of blankets she’s slept in since we left.

_“Most of the elves sailing with her are from Lothlórien, although there are a handful from the Greenwood. One of them is a healer. I asked her if she would be willing to keep an eye on those who were actively ill, and she said she would do her best. She isn’t Elrond, but…”_

_“I should go with her.”_

“Elrond—”

Círdan falls silent after my son’s interruption, but Elrond keeps going.

_“She needs someone to take care of her on the journey.”_

“Elrond, no. There are other healers going on the ship already.”

_“But she needs me!”_

_“Elrond.”_

Glorfindel’s hand comes to rest on my son’s shoulder, as I crawl out of the cart with Celebrían in my arms. She weighs barely anything, and suddenly I’m not sure she’ll survive long enough to see the blessed realm.

_“But…”_

There are tears in his eyes again.

_“Think of your children, Peredhel. Your sons need you, your daughter needs you even more.”_

I let out a deep sigh, grateful for the logic with which Círdan speaks. I have never been good with using the cold bite of rationality in these sorts of arguments.

_“There is much you have yet to accomplish in Middle Earth. You cannot sail yet.”_

A very long moment of silence follows after the shipwright has his last word, and through it all I can see Elrond’s mind turning the words over and over, trying and failing to find a flaw in his argument. In the end, though, he knows he is right. He knows he needs to stay.

A look of resignation settles in his teary eyes, and he solemnly nods, seeming to come to terms with what must happen. He doesn’t say anything, at first, just comes over to where I stand, carrying Celebrían in my arms, and lays a gentle kiss on her forehead.

The quiet things he says to her… I wish I could forget them. They are desperate and painful, and at the end of every sentence he utters the same three words, over and over again. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. When he finally pulls back, there are fresh tears in his eyes, and he looks like he’s aged half a century in that short span of only a few minutes.

_“We should go.”_

It is Círdan who speaks, and I’m grateful he’s at least allowed my son a moment to bid his wife farewell. I adjust Celebrían’s limp form in my arms and follow him to the docks. I am grateful that Elrond stays behind with Glorfindel, although I am unsure if it is by choice or if the warrior is holding him back. At this point, I cannot help but think that letting him near that ship might be unwise.

_“We’ve already waited too long.”_

“I know. We came as quickly as we could.”

_“You should have come weeks ago.”_

“I am well aware of that.”

My words almost choke me with the growl that accompanies them, but now is not the time to fight with the shipwright. We have had our differences in the past, but we share a common goal now. We will have to put aside the past for now.

“Elrond would not let us depart Imladris until he was sure she would not recover here. His desperation blinded him. Even now I do not think he is fully ready to let her go.”

_“He is not. But we cannot wait for him to be ready now.”_

It is tricky walking up the ramp to the deck of the boat, and it feels somehow wrong, like I am not supposed to be here. I wonder if it is my soul’s way of telling me I am not welcome on board. Regardless, I follow Círdan to the lower decks, and find an empty cot in which to settle my charge. It doesn’t look much more comfortable than the back of the cart, but I doubt Celebrían has the presence of mind to care.

She looks very nearly dead.

_“Come, son of Fëanor. There is little more we can do for her now.”_

I bristle at the name he calls me by, but follow him out of the ship all the same. I feel like a weight lifts from my shoulders as soon as my feet are back on the wharf, though the worry for my son and daughter-by-marriage still remain. It isn’t more than a minute before the vessel pulls away and into the bay, even as the sun sets over the water.

I stand and watch as long as I can, transfixed by the image of the sails growing smaller and smaller in the distance, even after the sun has long dipped below the horizon. The stars are out in all their glory by the time a strong hand settles on my shoulder, and I reluctantly tear my gaze away from the sea.

_“Círdan asked me to come get you.”_

Glorfindel’s words are muttered, like he is afraid to speak too loudly. His expression is sullen, and I have to ask him the one and only question that is on my mind.

“How is Elrond?”

_“Asleep, thankfully. I took him inside while you and Círdan made Celebrían comfortable, and he crawled into bed almost immediately.”_

I breathe a heavy sigh of relief at that. Part of me worried that the grief would keep sleep from him now that his wife is on her way, but it would seem that is not the case, at least not yet. Time will tell if he ends up needing the sleeping draughts we packed.

“Good… why did Círdan ask you to get me, then, if Elrond is resting?”

_“He said something about burning a hole in the horizon with how long you’ve been staring at it.”_

“Very funny.”

I have to snort at that. It is very much like him to make that sort of joke.

_“Also, your dinner is getting cold. I saved you some fried fish.”_

I hope he doesn’t catch the face I make at the mention of fried fish.

“Great… thanks.”

I glance back at the horizon as he leaves, trying to catch just one more glimpse of the ship before I head in for the night. But it is all in vain. The ship is gone, and I can see nothing but starlight reflected on the glassy seas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did ya cry? If not, I need to try harder.


	14. Etude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor is frustrated, Glorfindel is being dramatic, and Elrond's house is way too big and confusing.

“I… I can’t! I just can’t do it!”

This I say as I throw down my quill, splattering ink across the papers strewn across the table. The letters I’ve scribbled down are barely legible, and I swear that if my father saw the abominations I’ve created from his precious Tengwar, he would have my head on a platter, and disown me as his son. The thought makes me sick, worse than looking at the tangled mess of lines that remain of my attempt at drawing a musical staff. The lines are anything but straight, and the clef… I grew so frustrated with it that the nib of my quill snapped and ruined my work.

_“Maglor.”_

“I can’t…”

_“Yes, you can.”_

I stare forlornly at the parchments. I’ll never write again, music or otherwise. It is useless, an exercise in futility, and Celebrían is wasting her time. The mangled clef stares back at me from the sheet, mocking me in its disastrous state. With a frustrated growl, I shove all of the papers from the table onto the floor, an action which is met with wide eyes of shock. The shock quickly morphs into irritation, and the vindictive part of me is glad that I’m no longer alone in my sour mood.

_“Maglor, if you are going to start behaving like a child, I am going to start treating you like one.”_

“Celebrían…”

I scowl at her, then quickly yelp as she raps the knuckles of my remaining hand with a stick. I stare back at her, the shock now written on my face instead. Her look of righteous indignation makes my toes curl, and I know she means business now.

_“Pick up your quill.”_

“No.”

Another yelp as she smacks my hand again.

“Celebrían!”

_“Maglor. Pick up your quill.”_

“If you keep hitting my hand, I won’t be able to!”

I spit the words like venom as I storm out, leaving her in my room, surrounded by sheets and sheets of ruined letters, and one mocking clef. My only problem, I realize when I slam the door behind me, is that I have just stormed out of my only sanctuary in this massive, labyrinthine house of my son’s. I growl under my breath, and simply pick a hallway to walk down and head off, glaring at anyone who dares to look too long at me.

Soon enough, I am lost. I’ve gone through so many grand halls and quiet corridors that they’ve all begun to blend together. It is hard to tell if that stems from the memory problems, or the fact that I am too distracted by my anger to concentrate on navigating. Whatever the case may be, I’ve begun to tire. Elrond has warned me before about overtaxing my meager reserves, but until now I’ve hardly had a reason to listen: reading quietly in the sunshine on my balcony and playing chess in the garden are hardly strenuous activities. But now that I’ve burned off my energy with anger and pacing around the house? I’m beginning to feel just how much healing I have yet to do, how much strength I have yet to regain.

_“Maglor? What are you doing here?”_

The voice gives me a reason to stop my pacing, especially considering the fact that my glare should have been enough to silence any wagging tongues as I passed. When I look up to finally see the elf who called out to me, I quickly come to regret my decision to stop and chat.

“Er, Lord Glorfindel. I was just, ah, you see…”

_“Are you lost?”_

If my glare could have grown any more severe in that instant, it would have.

“No.”

_“Then what business, if I may be so bold to ask, does one so lofty as a son of Fëanor have in the wine cellar?”_

I have to actually stop and look at my surroundings after that and, lo and behold, what should line the walls of the room than many barrels of wine and several racks of bottles.

“I…”

_“Don’t tell me you’ve actually come for alcohol? I didn’t think Elrond was letting you have anything stronger than a sip of miruvor of late.”_

I bristle more at his banter, even though the look on his face is clearly meant to betray that he speaks in jest.

_“… you are lost.”_

“… I am lost.”

I say the words with more resignation than I probably want to, but at this point I have run out of the energy required to engage in any sort of intelligent banter. All I really want is a nap.

_“Do you need me to bring you back to Elrond, or…?”_

I cannot help but make a face. Honestly, Elrond is probably the last person I want to see right now. I do not want to deal with a reprimand from him today, after already enduring Celebrían’s nagging over the writing lesson. I never asked to learn to write again, even if I knew the day would come where I probably should. I just wasn’t expecting it to be so soon.

“Can I just…”

I make a few vague gestures, trying to get my point across without wasting time with trying to think of the right words for the occasion.

_“… hide?”_

“Not quite what I was going for, but yes.”

_“In which case, you’re free to join me, for that was just what I was doing down here.”_

“You? Hiding? What do you have to hide from?”

I follow as he sheepishly slinks down the aisle between the barrels, collecting a bottle from one of the racks as we pass. It isn’t until we are seated at a plain wooden table set and he has poured two glasses of the wine before Glorfindel answers.

_“My husband is furious with me.”_

I blink once, twice, then finally accept the glass he holds out to me.

“Erestor is mad at you.”

_“Yes. Erestor is mad at me.”_

“What did you do to earn his ire, might I ask?”

The warrior takes a long sip from his glass before deigning to answer, whilst I take a small sip from mine. It leaves me smacking my lips after I swallow, much like some of the medicine Elrond frequently foists upon me. I have quite forgotten the taste of decent wine over the centuries, and I am trying to determine if I like it or not.

_“Why do you just assume his temper is justified? What if he’s the one being unreasonable?”_

“What if you’re just being dramatic?”

_“You know, he said the same thing to me!”_

“I’d say that’s probably a sign then.”

We both drink from our glasses again, and again I end up making a face. He seems to think for a while before speaking again.

_“I bought him a gift.”_

“And this upset him?”

_“… greatly.”_

“How so?”

Here he blushes, seeming to debate over whether or not he should answer my question truthfully. Strangely enough, I get the feeling I might regret a truthful answer.

_“I bought him a… toy.”_

“A toy.”

_“Yes, a toy.”_

“Please tell me it is not one of—”

_“For use in the bedroom.”_

“—those toys.”

I blink at him, an unamused expression on my face as I take another long drink of the wine in my hands. Funny, it is beginning to taste better the longer I talk with Glorfindel.

_“It is made of glass, very high quality—”_

“Stop.”

_“What?”_

“Just… stop. If there is one thing I do not want to know about Erestor, it is what he does in the bedroom with his husband.”

_“That’s the thing though, I didn’t get it for us to use together.”_

“Were you listening to anything I just said?”

_“I figured it would be good for him to have when either of us has to go away on long trips without the other. I don’t want him to get lonely.”_

“I am beginning to understand why he is upset.”

_“Oh? Why?”_

“Because clearly you think with your nether regions and your ears are full of cotton!”

I shake my head, then drain the remainder of my drink as I stand, leaving the captain to think on my words for a while. I imagine it will take some time for him to parse out my meaning, and so I thank him for the wine, at which he sort of vacantly nods toward me, and head off back the way I came. After that conversation, I am far more inclined to a cooperative mood, if only so that I do not have to suffer through more of it.

Back through the twisting passages and winding halls I go. It is quite a long while before I recognize anything familiar, and I make a mental note to ask my son for some sort of floor plan or map of this horrendous place, so that I will at least not grow lost so easily. Out the window to my right I can see the gazebo in which I frequently play chess with Erestor. Unfortunately, I can see no easy way down from where I am, so I simply climb through the window and jump down into the flower bed.

It takes more energy than I had expected, and it leaves me nothing short of winded by the time I crawl out of the rosebushes, complete with no small number of scratches from the thorns, and several leaves stuck in my clothing and hair.

I decide that sitting down for a moment to catch my breath is probably a wiser course of action than falling backwards into the rose bed. I tell myself it isn’t much further to my bedroom and an actual nap, but more and more I find myself legitimately considering curling up under the bushes and having a nap here. I am certainly tired enough that the risk of more scratches is worth it.

I take only a moment longer to consider it before I relent and simply crawl back into the flowerbed. I settle under the least thorny rosebush I can find, and soon enough I am lost in the world of dreams.

* * *

_“Over here! I found him!”_

I’m disturbed from my sleep by a gauntleted hand, which shakes my shoulder and hauls me out from beneath the rose bush, pulling me to my feet and setting me upright. I barely have time to regain my balance before the hands release me and I’m left swaying on my feet.

_“Where was he? Lord Elrond will want us to bring him indoors as soon as possible.”_

I growl, rubbing my temples as they continue chattering. Why I’ve woken up with a headache is beyond me, but the noises they’re making, both with their mouths and the rattling of their armor is doing nothing to help. One of them grabs my arm and leads me off down the garden path. The light of the torch the other one carries somehow manages to make my headache worse.

“Can you lot please be quiet?”

I squint as the two look at each other, but at least they seem to catch the message, and lower their voices. As long as they stay quiet, I am content to let them drag me where they will. At least with them dragging me I can keep my eyes shut and block out the torchlight. In fact, I can almost doze off again. Almost.

Eventually, after passing through several doors and down many more corridors, my guide releases my arm and leaves me standing. I pry open an eye and immediately regret doing so upon seeing just who stands before me.

Elrond.

_“Good evening, father.”_

I wince at not only the flickering of the candles which light his study, but also the expression he wears. It is somewhere between furious and concerned, although I have to notice that there seems to also be an undertone of plain exhaustion beneath it all.

“Son.”

_“Celebrían and I were worried about you.”_

“Understandably so.”

_“We couldn’t find you.”_

“Neither could I. I ended up in the wine cellar.”

He very nearly smiles. But not quite.

_“Is that why you look ever so slightly hung-over?”_

“Blame the captain of your guard.”

_“Glorfindel? He told me he would be out in the training yard this afternoon.”_

“… Perhaps that may have been a euphemism.”

_“I am beginning to think you are correct.”_

He seems to consider this information for a moment, during which I shift uncomfortably, wanting nothing more than to head straight to bed. I am tired, and sore from my nap on the ground, and also scraped up from the rose bushes.

“Elrond, I would love to stand here with you all night and chat, but I am very tired, and would very much like to sit down.”

My son finally smiles, almost laughing even.

_“Would you also like a tonic for the headache?”_

“You know, this time I might actually take you up on the offer. I’m exhausted.”

_“I have warned you several times against overexerting yourself while you are still healing.”_

“Yes, yes, I’m aware.”

_“Oh, and father?”_

“Hm?”

_“Celebrían has asked me to inform you that she expects to see your letters written out on paper twenty times each by tomorrow afternoon.”_

I have to sigh, a little bit peeved. Of course she wouldn’t let me off easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as it turns out, being the only tech in the lab over a holiday weekend sucks and has a way of sapping all of one's creative energy (and life) out of them, so this took way longer than it should have. But hey, it's posted, right? Right?


	15. Crushed Daisies in Her Hair III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond needs time to cope with his loss, and Maglor tries to bring as much comfort as he can.

_“Is he still pacing?”_

“No, thankfully.”

I practically huff as I come down the stairs, feeling more exhausted than I have since we set out from Imladris all those days ago. It feels like months, even though I know it has probably been less than two weeks. Still, I think the battle we’ve been facing has all of us at our ends, fighting for every scrap of energy we can get.

_“Thank the Valar.”_

“Somehow I convinced him that he would collapse sooner or later if he didn’t lay down and rest, although I think him tripping over a fold in the rug and landing on his face may have played no small part in that.”

_“So he’s sleeping, then?”_

“No, just laying down. Or at least he was when I left him. I don’t imagine he’ll do more than stare at the wall for the next few hours.”

_“Hm.”_

_“It would be better if he slept.”_

I spare the shipwright only a brief glance, and as much as I want to tell him to mind his own, I know that I really have no right to. After all, he has given us his hospitality, and of the three of us, he has the best understanding of how to help my son shake his despair. Glorfindel and I both feel as though we are fighting a losing battle, although Círdan assures us that Elrond’s melancholy behavior is to be expected, some days even attempting to convince us that he is recovering more quickly than most he has seen in similar situations.

The captain and I remain unconvinced.

“I am well aware.”

This I sigh as I make my way to the hearth, where a roaring blaze has burned for most of the day. Mild though the season might be on the coast, winter is winter, and it is far better to be too warm than chilled, especially for Elrond. I stoke the flames, hanging a kettle of water on the rack before the hearth. My heart feels heavy, especially staring into the fire as I am. It reminds me far too much of my family.

Maedhros’s hair, and the reckless bravado with which he used to throw himself at every task before him with the certainty that comes from conquering mountains. The many blazing campfires we would gather around in the wilderness, roasting whatever beast Celegorm and the twins had brought down in the darkened forests for dinner. The burning red of Caranthir’s ears, that ruddy blush that persisted even in the mildest of weather. Heat and molten metal glinting amongst the coals of Curufin’s forge, sparks flying as a sword takes shape, my young nephew learning the craft at his father’s knee. And the twins… the crackling staccato of charring flesh and hair as one screams, burning alive, the flames etched forever into the sight of his mirror, until the day that he too burned and the flames of memory were finally extinguished.

It makes sense, though, in a way.

Father was practically made of fire.

_“—glor? Are you even listening?”_

I blink, reluctantly tearing my gaze from the hearth. Even looking away towards Glorfindel, who looks mildly perturbed, the visions of flame follow, wreathing around his golden hair like a halo.

“… Yes?”

_“I suggested that perhaps you ought to get the sleeping draught we brought with us.”_

I do not know why, but that idea turns my stomach. I know he has done the same to me countless times, and I know that he has been pacing his room for nigh on three days now, practically wearing a hole in the floor upstairs. But I still hesitate.

“I am hoping that perhaps a gentler approach might be more effective.”

_“Hm? And what approach would that be? Because we’ve already tried just about everything.”_

“You threatened to tie him to the bed.”

_“Did I?”_

_“Yes, two nights ago after you found my wine stash.”_

Both of us turn to the shipwright, whose expression has not changed in the slightest, and whose attention still seems to be completely taken by the small piece of wood in his hands, likely a carving in progress. If he is perturbed at the sudden reduction in his collection of alcohol, he does not betray it.

_“Oh, right. Well that was the only idea I had.”_

“Of course it was.”

I shake my head, pressing the palm of my remaining hand into my eye and attempting to rub out the soreness that comes with too many hours sitting awake with my son and trying to bring him whatever comfort I can. I lift the kettle from its hook when it begins to whistle, and promptly pour the steaming water into two mugs. Various leaves go into both, peppermint, licorice root, and chamomile flowers. Three dried blackberries find their way into one of them, and I recall vividly a time so very long ago when I did the same for a much smaller Elrond, who flat out refused any tea that did not contain the tart, violet fruits. The brew is sweet and herbal, and something which I hope will calm my son’s anguish long enough for him to find rest.

_“… tea?”_

“Yes. Tea. And a few other things as well.”

_“Like what?”_

“Things I do not expect you will understand, Glorfindel, and so I will not bother explaining them to you.”

I give each mug one more stir, and fish out the leaves that are big enough to grab with a spoon before taking both in my singular hand and making my way back up the stairs to his room. I do not bother knocking, but I do shut the door quickly behind me, especially once the sharp tones of Círdan’s voice are heard reprimanding Glorfindel’s whining.

“Elrond?”

My voice is hushed, softer than even a breath of wind, and nearly drowned out by the crying of gulls in the bay. But I fear to speak any louder, lest I startle him. He is still where I left him, curled up on his side in the bed, staring at the wall, a quilt haphazardly tucked around him.

“I brought some tea.”

I set both mugs on the bedside table, and perch on the edge of the bed at his elbows. He doesn’t react at all, and I frown, initially. It isn’t any different than what I expected, although I had hoped for at least some sign of acknowledging my presence. I sigh, and gently brush my fingers across his temple and over his scalp, lightly scratching as I go. He blinks, long and slow, and although it is not much, it is just enough.

“Will you have some? Just a sip, while it is still hot?”

It is a messy affair, for he barely lifts his head enough to reach the mug, but far be it from me to let the almost imperceptible, barely-there nod get away from me without a fight. The mug is half empty by the time he lays his head back down, although a good portion of the missing liquid has since soaked into the bedding.

He sighs, deep and heavy, and gives a long, slow blink. When his eyes open again, it is not the wall he stares at, but me. I cannot help the sad smile that makes its way to my face. There is more clarity in his gaze now than there has been for weeks. I continue to tug my fingers through his hair, working out the tangles that have moved in, massaging his scalp where I can.

“Are you tired?”

_“N-o.”_

His voice is almost as rough as mine was when he first found me.

I only hum in response, continuing to play with his hair as I watch him. He is quiet, having returned his gaze to the wall, although he is not so transfixed as he was earlier. The melancholy is still there, still eating away at him, but he doesn’t seem to be dwelling on it so closely now. It’s an improvement, albeit a small one.

It takes more effort than I want it to for me to leave his side, but eventually I force myself to stand and shuffle over to the wardrobe. There are plenty of spare blankets within, and I waste no time setting about constructing the most comfortable nest that I can for him. A few of the quilts I roll up tightly and press on either side of him, one against his back and one against his chest. It warms my heart when he drapes an arm over the roll in front of him, resting his head against it. The heavier blankets I layer on top of him, tucking around the rolls and creating the coziest cocoon I can manage. At least he is smaller than Maedhros was…

“How’s that?”

He makes a noise that does not resemble actual words so much as it does a cat purring as it settles down for a nap in the sunshine. I take it to be a good sign, especially when he nuzzles into the blankets I’ve piled around him. With a little sigh of my own, I take up my former position on the edge of the bed, and resume my earlier activity of combing his hair.

“You should get some sleep, little one.”

_“Mrm…”_

“You’ve been awake for far too long. You need to get your rest so that we can go home soon.”

_“I d-on’t wa-nt to…”_

I frown as his hesitant little voice trails off, wavering just on the edge of a whisper. He looks so lost, wandering through a maze of sorrow that looms over every memory of joy and eclipses it with pain. I understand, and I want to help, but there is only so much I can do.

“I know, little one, I know. It’s hard. But you have a daughter, and sons, and they need you now more than ever. They feel the loss too. Do you remember what it felt like, all those years ago? Do you remember what you and your brother felt when your mother left?”

He whines, pressing his face into the blankets before him, and I know then that I’ve struck a nerve. It stings, but he needs to remember why he cannot allow himself to succumb to despair just yet. I think I can see the beginnings of tears in the corners of his eyes. I move my hand from his scalp to his shoulders, rubbing small circles into his back and neck. In a matter of minutes, he begins to weep violently, and it makes my heart ache to hear it. I am again brought back to the past, but instead of flames, my vision is of dark shadows on a starless night, a pair of bawling children clinging to my breastplate, screaming for their mother as I carry them through the remnants of their home, now utterly destroyed.

And I remember.

It starts as a hum, low in the back of my mind, a flowing melody that makes its way to my voice. A lullaby. Slow and steady as a river, deep and wide, the melody grows in strength with each syllable. I keep the volume of my voice low and soft, much as I did on that starless night in the Havens of Sirion, although now my reasons for doing so are much different. In that age, it was to keep the children in my arms at ease, quietly dozing while I carried them away from the carnage of war to a place of relative safety. Now… now it is because I can feel the remnants of my old strength of voice dragging on the edges of my words, weighing them down like stones around a diver’s ankles, tinging them with powers so old they should lay long-forgotten.

It has been so long, and the deep magic begs to be used, filling in the spaces between my words and bleeding into every note and syllable. But I must resist it. I cannot use a song of power on my son, not again, not when he is like this, and certainly not here. I do not want to know what Círdan would do if he knew…

But it is insistent, folding its way into my voice despite my best efforts. I sing in little more than a whisper, but the words I utter still cause reality to twist and vibrate around me. It feels like there is a hurricane trapped within me, like something within has been long asleep and has finally awoken. Time escapes me as I am lost in the song, rolling in the vibrations of power that has lain dormant for years unnumbered, until the sound of sharp footsteps ascending the stairs catches my ear.

Just like that, the magic is gone, dissolved like sugar in hot tea, leaving nothing behind but the sweet taste of power that once was there, but is no longer.

I wonder briefly if I will ever feel it again.

My voice catches in my throat, stopping short as I return to the present world, and I end up making a choking sound just as the door eases open. To my utter horror, it is Círdan who stands in the doorway. His expression is unreadable, neither his eyes nor his mouth betraying any emotion, but there is something in his bearing that seems… grim. It comes as a shock, then, when the tone he speaks with is not outright accusatory.

_“How is he?”_

For the first time since I lost myself to the melody of the lullaby, I actually look at my son. His eyes are glazed over in sleep, and although his cheeks are still glistening with tears, his features are more relaxed than I have seen them in weeks.

“Better, I think.”

_“Good. Hopefully if he continues to improve he can return home sooner rather than later.”_

“Hopefully.”

I fidget with the hem of one of the blankets, bringing it up to cover my son’s shoulder.

_“At the very least, you managed to get him to sleep. Although I do have to wonder… was it the tea and the blankets that did the trick? Or was it a song of power?”_

It is at that moment when my heart decides to rather dramatically attempt to crawl out through my throat and all the color drains from my face. I am left speechless, where before I could not stop the words flowing from my lips, and I must imagine that I look rather foolish, opening and closing my mouth over and over again in an attempt to speak. I probably look like some sort of ghostly white fish.

The shipwright sighs, and I almost think for a minute that he looks irritated, or perhaps annoyed, before he shakes his head and waves a hand dismissively at me.

_“Your fears are misplaced, Maglor. I felt your struggle, I know you did not willingly allow the power into your voice.”_

Somehow, his words still bring me no comfort.

_“Take some rest. I think, come morning, your son will finally be ready to accept his loss and begin healing.”_

With that, he exits, quietly shutting the door behind him, and I let out a long-held sigh of relief. Círdan has always been disconcerting to be around, but staying in his home, even for just these few days, has been an entirely different experience, one I am not keen on repeating.

I blink a few times, and the exhaustion from the song combined with the reduced sleep I’ve gotten of late causes me to yawn and stretch. I tell myself it is because my son needs me that I lay down beside him instead of finding my own bed, and not because I am far too tired to even make it out the door. I slip under the mountain of quilts, settling on my side against the blanket roll at Elrond’s back, and reach across until my hand rests on his shoulder. I yawn again, and speak in the softest whisper I can manage.

“Good night, little one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter in which I realized I've written Círdan as a stereotypical INTJ and now I can't unsee it.


	16. Aftershock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, even after that which threatens us has been vanquished, it still takes time before we feel truly safe again.

_“This is far better than you deserve, traitor.”_

It feels like I fall from several feet before hitting the ground, cold and wet, the crunching sound my body makes on impact telling me that I’ve been tossed into a snowbank. My ribs ache tremendously, as does my shoulder, like someone has tried to separate it from my body. I would shiver from the cold, if I could move at all, but I cannot so much as twitch a finger. I cannot move, I cannot see. I do not know from what this paralysis, this blindness stems from, but I can feel my heart beating frantically against the shattered ribs containing it.

_“No one will find you for quite some time, I wager.”_

The soft sole of a boot presses against my chest, driving my body deeper into the chilling snow, and causing my bones to grind against each other. I would cry out, but the only sound that leaves me is a strained breath. It leaves me gasping.

_“It is due to snow tonight and into the morning. Enough to cover my tracks and bury you alive, filthy kinslayer.”_

Raw panic, colder than the ice crystals that I feel falling on my lax face, winds its way through my aching body. My chest stings with every breath, each coming faster than the last as I frantically will my unresponsive limbs to move.

_“With any luck, you’ll freeze to death before the weeks end. No one will find your body until the spring thaw.”_

This is wrong, very wrong. My heart tells me this never happened, but here I am, cold seeping into my bones as the late winter snow falls around me, burying me alive, just as the eerie voice above me foretold. It is happening, and I am screaming inside as the crunch of receding footsteps reaches my ears.

_“Farewell, Maglor. I only wish we could have spent more quality time together before it came to this, but alas, it was not to be. Perhaps after I disappear for a few centuries into the Greenwood, I’ll have to come back for your half-blooded whelp.”_

NO!

That is the moment when I recognize the timbre of the voice that’s been wafting over me this whole time. That arrogant lilt, accentuated by the constant presence of his clear Lothlórien accent. I may have known him but briefly, but the sound and the terror of that voice is burned forever in my memory, etched with chisels so sharp there is nothing that can ever expunge it.

Fêrion. 

_“Too bad those goblins moved into that cave I had picked out for us. It was all ready for you and me to spend a nice long holiday in, quiet and secluded, high up in the mountains. I would have shown you all my favorite knives and surgical implements, and how they work of course. Oh, and the hot irons, and the whips, and so many other things as well!”_

He speaks of torture, it does not take a scholar to realize it.

_“I wonder if the sound of your mongrel son crying out for mercy will sound as sweet… probably not. Shame I’ll miss this opportunity to make the greatest minstrel in Arda scream until his legendary voice is utterly ruined.”_

I will my body to action, if not to move then to wail back that I will go wherever he wishes, do whatever he pleases, if he would only spare Elrond. He holds no quarrel with my son, save through his relations with me. Take me! Leave him and take me instead! I will do whatever you wish, just please do not harm him! He has done nothing to deserve it! Please! PLEASE!

I summon every ounce of strength I possess, but the result is only a weak moan.

Hot tears run down my face as the footsteps grow quieter, muffled by the haze caused by the falling snow. Hopelessness settles in my heart, and weariness creeps its way through my limbs, starting at my fingers and toes. I weep for Elrond, for the suffering this elf has promised to make him endure. I weep for the twins, and Arwen, who will grow up fatherless for the rest of their lives, and blame me for it, for not being able to sacrifice myself to save him. I weep for Celebrían, who will lose her husband, if not to death by torture then to the heartache brought on by enduring such depravity. I know that there are few alive today who have the constitution to survive for long under such circumstances.

I am so tired, and it is so cold, and I do not understand why. The first born are not meant to suffer in the elements, even if I have grown less from my long years of illness. Surely, I cannot freeze to death, as men do? Surely not. Surely?

I am not shivering, even as the snow falls more fiercely, burying me in a layer half a finger’s-length deep. I feel the chill chasing away the pain of my broken body, leaving an eerie numbness in its wake. The absence of pain makes it easier for the exhaustion to take hold, and I find myself drifting closer to sleep with every passing minute.

I have heard that this is what it feels like for mortals to pass in the cold, but the fear that drove me to panic mere minutes (Hours? Days? I know not how long I have lain buried in this snowbank) earlier is only a dull realization now. I am far too tired to be bothered with it.

Far…

Too…

Tired…

* * *

_“Maglor!”_

There is a sudden impact across my cheek, and the sharp pain of it combines with the urgency in the voice that cries my name to shake me out of reverie. The dregs of the nightmare still cling to my senses, leaving me disoriented even as fierce bright light floods my vision, effectively blinding me. I feel like I am freezing, still encased in ice.

_“Maglor, are you back with us now?”_

_“Get him up, we need to get him dried off and warmed up.”_

Hands that feel impossibly warm grab me under my arms and haul me upright. I try to blink away the blindness, but it is no use, there is too much light, and I cannot see. Even still, I am flooded with relief. I’ve been found. I’ve been rescued. And now I can warn my son of the danger he’s in. That is… if it isn’t already too late.

I am placed in front of a hearth, I know because I can hear the crackling of the flames. I still cannot see, no matter how much I blink, even now that I am clearly indoors and out of the sun. Everything hurts now, as the numbness that had previously drowned out all else recedes and allows the pain to make itself known. Strangely enough, there is only a little pain in my chest and shoulder, though my fingers and toes now burn fiercely as sensation returns to them. But by far, it is my head and my eyes that hurt the most.

Strange how it has taken until now, when I am bundled in layers of blankets and mere feet away from a blazing hearth, for me to start shivering.

_SNAP_

The sound originates directly in front of my nose, and I reel backwards, losing about half of the blankets as they fall away from me. A heavy sigh draws my attention, though. I had not known there were others still in the room.

_“I’m sorry, father.”_

Elrond? My stomach lurches, now knowing that my son is here with me. There is something important I need to tell him, something I need to remember…

_“Elrohir, can you please grab few things from the medicine cabinet? Everything on this list, please._

I cannot even hear him leave, curse my grandson for being so quiet. Elrond’s calloused fingertips pick and pry at my eyes, and although I know he is only trying to see what is the matter, they are still sore and I still flinch away.

_“Sorry… I will be done in a minute, I promise.”_

He is probably lying, but that is not what bothers me. The thing that eats the most at me is that I cannot, for the life of me, remember what was so pressing that I needed him to know. I fidget while he continues to examine my unseeing eyes, tugging the blankets tighter around my shoulders and noticing for the first time that I am dressed only in my nightclothes, and that they feel understandably damp. After all, who knows how long I was stuck in that snowbank.

But, then… why was I in my nightclothes?

That wasn’t what I wore when I fell.

When I…

Fell.

Fêrion!

“E-lr…”

My tongue seems hesitant to cooperate, and I end up wheezing. Someone holds a glass of water to my lips, and I am allowed a few sips before it is retracted. I try again to get his attention, my tone insistent. As I stutter at him I reach out, trying to find and hold onto him afraid that if I may lose him if I cannot feel him.

“El-rond.”

_“What is it, Maglor? Are you in pain?”_

Yes, but that is not important right now. When I finally feel the soft fabric of my son’s shirt, I grab onto it with all the strength I have, trembling fingers be damned.

“He’s c-coming f-f-f-for you. Said he w-ould af-after he killed me.”

My teeth chatter so violently that I have to wonder if my son understands a word I am saying, and I can only hope that he has the insight to put everything together. I feel helpless, blind and vulnerable. If Fêrion shows up now I will be utterly at his mercy, unable to even warn my son of his presence.

_“Father, what are you talking about? Who said they were coming for me?”_

His tone is disbelieving, and I feel my heart sink in my chest. He doesn’t understand that he is in danger, doesn’t know that his life is at risk. It sends a fresh wave of panic through my chest, and it makes my ribs ache all the more.

“Fêrion!”

For far too long, the only sounds in the room are that of the crackling fire and my frantic breaths. Elrond does not immediately respond, and that worries me. Is he even still in the room? If not, then what do I hold in my hand if not his shirt? Why does he stay silent? Does he already know? Did Fêrion already make an attempt on his life?

_“Maglor… Fêrion has been dead for three months.”_

W… What?

My son pries my fingers from his shirt, taking my hand very gently in his as he does so. It worries me how tender he has become all of a sudden, and my hand shakes in his.

_“Tell me what you remember, father?”_

He sounds sad as he speaks, and I can feel tears pricking at the corners of my aching eyes. He doesn’t believe me. He doesn’t know he is in danger, or doesn’t care. But I squeeze his hand and tell him everything anyway, stammering my way through the story of Fêrion leaving me in the snow to die and threatening to torture my son. When I finish, he is still silent for quite a while before speaking again.

_“Maglor, where do you think you are right now?”_

“… Lothlórien?”

His sigh is heavy, but not exasperated, just… sad.

_“We’ve been back in Imladris for almost three months, father. Fêrion was executed before we left. Do you remember how you got to be out in the garden?”_

“The garden?”

_“Yes, the groundskeeper found you sprawled out in the snow in the garden, asleep. My sons brought you indoors when you were discovered.”_

I frown at the new information, shaking my head in answer to his question. I have no memory of being in the garden, only of being buried alive in snow and left to die, and I tell him so. The sound of the door unlatching captures my attention, and apparently Elrond’s as well, as there is not a response to my words.

_“Thank you, Elrohir.”_

I swallow thickly, still confused and still not quite sure that my son and I are safe from Fêrion, even though Elrond is certain the swine was executed. His hands are on my face again, and I hiss when he touches my eyes, both because it hurts and because he startled me.

_“Sorry father… the morning sun reflected off the snow while you slept and blinded you. I have a poultice to put over your eyes to help them heal.”_

I frown, but I still sit quietly as he spreads the cool paste over my eyes. It stings, and elicits a whine from me as he winds bandages around my head to hold the medicine in place. The burning continues for several minutes, during which I fidget as Elrond picks at my fingers and toes, before it eventually subsides, leaving numbness in its wake.

_“How’s the pain?”_

“I’ve f-f-felt worse.”

I do not like it, this blindness. I feel jumpy, unable to see who is around me and what they are doing, unsure of if there is danger waiting for me and my family just outside the door. Even if there was, I could do nothing about it. I am totally helpless. Even when Elrond presses a warm mug of tea into my hand, I nearly leap out of my skin.

_“It is only tea, Maglor, no need to be so jumpy. I’ve put something in it to help with the pain. And if it also soothes your frayed nerves, all the better.”_

I huff indignantly, but sip on the warm liquid nonetheless. It is not so easy as I had hoped it might be, what with having only one hand to begin with and being able to see neither the mug nor how full it is. Luckily, I only end up spilling a bit, for it is sweet and light and warm. The liquid heats me up from within, and already I feel my shivering subside. I can taste the honey he’s added to mask the taste of the medicine, and I am quite grateful for it, as it not only keeps the bitterness at bay, but also soothes my dry and itchy throat.

A sudden hand on my shoulder startles me again, and I nearly drop the mug. It is only Elrond, of course, shuffling over to sit behind me. He takes the empty mug when I am finished with it, setting it aside and out of the way, before pulling me back to lean against his torso. I settle against his chest with an unexpected sigh of relief. The contact with him is grounding in a way I did not expect it to be: I do not feel nearly as lost or helpless like this. Rather, when he brings his arms to wrap around me, I feel safe and secure.

“Elrond.”

_“Hm?”_

“How did I end up in the garden?”

It is some time before he answers, and I almost ask again, but he starts before I even open my mouth.

_“I do not recall you being prone to sleepwalking in the past, but it is, I think, the most likely answer.”_

“I suppose my father used to get up and wander in his sleep. Caranthir, too, would do it sometimes, although he was more prone to speak while he slept.”

_“It does tend to be a familial thing. But if this is the first time it has happened to you, I doubt it will happen again without some other cause. For now, I am content to blame your sleep disturbances on the stress resulting from our trip to Lothlórien. If it does happen again, though, we might need to look a bit closer at it.”_

“Hm.”

It seems like a weak excuse, but I do not have a better one.

“So, Fêrion leaving me to die in the cold… it was probably a dream, then.”

_“Yes, I would imagine so.”_

I droop at hearing his words, at once relieved and embarrassed that my family is in no real danger. Most of all though, I just feel tired. Apparently walking around the house in my sleep led to a not-so-restful night, and I suppose it is understandable; what little sleep I did get was disturbed by nightmares of an elf who tried to kill me, after all.

“And the blindness, how long will that last? It isn’t permanent, is it?”

My moment of panic is only brief, luckily, and Elrond does not make me wait too long for his answer this time.

_“Not at all, father. In fact, it should only be a day or two before your sight returns fully.”_

“Good… good.”

_“Do you want me to stay with you today? Otherwise I can take you back to your room and have Elrohir sit with you once he finishes his lessons for the day.”_

The thought of being left alone, even in my room where I know I’ll be safe, turns my stomach. I do not think I could bear it for more than a few minutes.

“Can you stay with me? I do not want to be alone.”

_“I cannot say I blame you. I would not want to be left alone in your state either. I do think that once you are asleep, and I am fairly certain that will happen within the next hour or so, I will get some paperwork and a tablet from my desk so that I might get some work done while I sit with you.”_

“You would split your attention between your work and your own father? What a selfish son I’ve raised.”

_“Oh hush, now you’re just being dramatic.”_

“Perhaps so, but after the morning I’ve had I would say I’m entitled to be a little dramatic.”

_“I suppose when you put it that way it does sound justified.”_

I give him a tired chuckle before letting a comfortable silence settle between us, one that lasts until long after I’ve fallen asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concept: Elves who sleep with their eyes open (i.e. most of them) should be careful not to sleep outdoors when there is snow on the ground, because snow blindness is a legitimate concern. 
> 
> In addition: The next chapter will be the conclusion for the Daisies arc, and it will probably be a short one, so I let this one run a bit longer by combining two ideas (the nightmare and the snow blindness) that were originally going to be separate chapters, but I think they worked better together anyway. *shrugs*


	17. Crushed Daisies in Her Hair IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road home, Elrond takes comfort from a new discovery.

“Feeling better?”

He nods, leaning against my shoulder. There is still a noticeable droop to his countenance, and I wager there will be for some time, but it is still a marked improvement over the manic pacing he was prone to in the Havens. In fact, the further we get from the shores, the calmer my son seems to be. I do not think lingering so close to the sea has been good for him, but I will admit that attempting to travel any sooner would have likely been disastrous.

I made sure to thank Círdan profusely for his hospitality before we set out. It would have been one thing to put up with a moody, half-faded Peredhel alone, but housing a reformed one-handed kinslayer and a reborn alcoholic balrog-slayer alongside the first is, at least in my opinion, was far more than he should have had to deal with. He even refused when I offered to pay for the copious amount of wine Glorfindel had pilfered from his stash.

_“It is only wine. I hardly drink it anyway, it is mostly for guests. Keep your coin.”_

His response had been short and concise, without so much as a twitch deviating from his permanently-tired expression. I find myself trying to remember what he looked like in the First Age, the few times I saw him. I seem to recall him appearing exactly the same, permanently-tired expression and all, although at the time I probably blamed it on the constant war against Morgoth. Now I am beginning to think that was hardly the case. Perhaps that is just his face.

Regardless, I think he cares more than he lets on.

_“Can we stop for lunch soon?”_

“Of course. I think Glorfindel has gone ahead to find someplace for just that purpose. Are you hungry?”

He nods, and I drape my handless arm over his shoulders, holding him close as the cart we ride in jerks when one of the wheels hits a rock. At least Elrond is not startled this time. I still worry though.

_“Over here!”_

Glorfindel calls, waving from where he stands up ahead on the side of the road. I turn the horses off where he directs me to, following a narrow path that leads off into the woods. The track ends not far from the shore of a small lake, really no more than an iced-over pond, but the clearing is sheltered and sunny, and an excellent place to stop for a rest.

I halt the cart and promptly unhitch the horses, allowing them to paw and roll in the snow for a while as we eat. It is still early enough in the season that there isn’t anything for them to graze on, and so I scatter some feed for them as well. Glorfindel’s stallion nickers at me, nudging me aside so that he can get at the grain. I shouldn’t let him bully me, but I know that pushing back could very well result in the massive animal simply punting me across the clearing. That is, of course, something I would rather avoid.

By the time I rejoin them, Elrond and Glorfindel have found a dry spot to spread out our lunch and are already partaking. It is the same fare as we have had for the past few days of traveling, dried fruits and unleavened breads, with a few strips of salted pork and hard cheese thrown in. I am beginning to look forward to having something fresh to eat when we get home.

I take for myself a piece of bread and some dried apricots, watching forlornly as my son picks at his own food. At least he is eating something, albeit slowly, but it is better than having to threaten him in order to get him to eat. I sit beside him, and as soon as I settle he is back to leaning against my shoulder. Once I have eaten my fill, I return my arm to its place across his shoulders, and he lets out a sigh. I can feel the tension leave his body with the exhale, and it makes me smile.

“Something on your mind?”

It takes a long time for him to respond, and when he does finally speak, it is barely more than a whisper.

_“I can feel her again.”_

“What?”

_“Celebrían… It’s been months since I’ve been able to feel her spirit. But I… I can finally feel it again.”_

He barely finishes his sentence before his words are drowned out by violent sobs. I wrap both arms around him, holding him close and tight, drying his tears with my shirt. I know that they are tears of joy this time, not tears of sorrow, and it fills me with relief as well.

“She must be nearly there, then.”

Tears threaten to fall from my own eyes as I speak, the worry and hopelessness that has been dogging me since sending her off on that ship suddenly lifting from my shoulders. Glorfindel smiles from where he stands, brushing the sludge off the horses a few yards away. Even if he did not hear exactly what was said, I think he understands why we are both a mess of tears. He seems to watch for a few minutes, waiting until the sobs gradually calm before speaking.

_“Do you want to stay a while longer, Elrond? There’s no rush to get home. We can even stay here tonight if you like.”_

I smile and nod, looking to my son’s tear-stained face for an answer. It brings me such joy to see him smiling, even if there is snot dripping from his nose and his eyes are red and puffy.

_“No… I think… I think I would like to go home.”_

I give him a squeeze, and I hear the very beginnings of laughter in his voice as he continues.

_“I feel lighter than I have in months.”_

“That’s good!”

_“Let us not waste any more time, then. I imagine Erestor will be quite relieved to have us back in Imladris!”_

Even Glorfindel’s eyes seem brighter, now that Elrond is beginning to perk up. It will still be quite a while before things are back to normal, if it ever comes to that. But for now, I will be content to have my son sitting next to me, grinning like a fool for the joy in his heart. It has been far too long since I have seen him this way, and although it would be better to have Celebrían here with us as well, I know that she is better off on the far shores, where she can heal and live and wait for the day when her family finally joins her.

I do not know if I will ever see her again, for I know not if I will be allowed to cross the Starlight Road and return to Aman. It may be my fate to remain here forever. If so, then I will make the most of it. I’ve been given a second chance to live, and I will spend as much of it as I can with the family I have left, even if that number is now one fewer.

I am just grateful we were not too late to save them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for Daisies! Work kicked my butt again this week (thanks, MLK Day...) so this is all I have written for the moment. I'm not quite sure what the next chapter will bring, so if there is a prompt you'd like me to fill or a suggestion for something (a specific trope, character, or other theme) you'd like to see, leave it in a comment and I'll see what I can do! In the meantime, I am considering starting yet another story, this one set almost exclusively in Valinor... maybe. We'll see.


	18. Once a Golden Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor is becoming more independent, leading to some unfortunate events.

I’ve taken to regular rides in the afternoons, both with and without Elrohir with me. At first, he was understandably reluctant to allow it, but Star-Sailor has shown herself to be more than willing to tote me around on her back, and I think it is good for both of us to get out and about every so often. The mountain air, crisp and fresh with the scent of pines and blooming lupines, holds a calming quality to it reminiscent of the lands far across the sea, and if I am to be bound forever to these shores, I may as well take the comfort where I can find it.

Star-Sailor is already at the gate to her stall when I get to the barn, as she generally is these days, her ears forward and looking expectantly for me. She snorts as I undo the latch, shoving her face into mine as soon as I step past the doorway. I chuckle, giving her velvet nose a pet or two before I reach for her brush. I try to clean her coat out every time I ride, even if it is an exercise in futility: I know that she’ll find the nearest mud puddle as soon as we are finished and roll in it. Still, even if she has no pride in her appearance, I try to at least make her look well-kept.

My grandson put so much work into her pedigree, and I might as well show her off.

Once the majority of the dirt has been brushed off and she no longer looks like she’s been lost in the wilderness for the past year, I lead her out of her stall. She follows me closely, her nose right by my hand, even though she is not tethered to me at all. I’ve found the use of a saddle and bridle to be more trouble than it is worth, both for her and for me. She despises it, now that she knows that I only ever come around to ride her, and the struggle of getting it all properly secured is more work than I would like to put in if I do not need to.

“Stay still…”

I mutter to her as soon as we are far enough out of the barn that I can lift myself up and onto her back. It comes easier these days than it used to, although I still only mount from the left, as if there is still a sword at my hip to be cognizant of. I suppose old habits die hard.

She waits until I am comfortable before moving off, lazily plodding off down the path towards the gates. It is warm today, and there are plenty of people out and about in the late spring sunshine, enjoying the garden or simply taking a walk through town, doing their errands. I know that once we are past the gate and onto the road out of the valley that Star-Sailor will pick up speed, as she always does. It is a good thing, I think, even if at first it felt like she would throw me off with the way she took off down the mountain trail. These days I have the strength to stay on more easily, and the presence of mind to know when she plans her bursts of speed.

I think we’ve grown so used to each other, it will be difficult for both of us when she eventually comes into foal.

Soon the cobbles beneath her hooves turn to soft, damp earth, and she lurches forward at a trot up the mountain and into the pines. It has rained every day for the past week, keeping us off the forest trails and stuck in the yard at home for our daily rides, but today it is finally sunny, and we plan to make the most of it. The air is heavy with petrichor, and there are still a few droplets of rainwater clinging to the leaves of the undergrowth in the shade, where the sun has yet dry it out. Everything is cool and refreshing, and although I know I will have to wash the mud off of Star-Sailor’s legs when we are done, for now it is well worth it.

I brace when we reach a flat section of the trail that stretches over a meadow, and the mare beneath me breaks into an all-out run. The flowers near the path are a blur of violet and shades of pink amid a sea of lush green. Her hooves send mud flying, and I start laughing, realizing that I will probably have to wash her flanks and belly, as well as myself, and not just her legs. But for the moment, I cannot bring myself to care! Joy fills my heart, more than it has in many thousands of years, and for once I can forget all of the suffering and hardships, all the loss and dismay that I have faced for all that time. I can feel the Music stirring in my soul, thrumming with the rhythm of Star-Sailor’s feet as they pound over the mountainside. The burbling stream we leap over lends its harmony to the Music, and in less than ten strides we rush again into the shade of the pines.

A branch whips across my face, leaving a sharp sting as the needles thrash against my cheek, but I care not. Each breath of mine is saturated in freedom, steeped in the voices which sang the world into being. It is both familiar and foreign, reminding me of my youth in Aman, back when I the only cares I had were of my studies and my music, and taking joy in the steadiness of day to day life. Before all of the death, before the bloodshed, before I lost everything.

We go flying over a tree that’s fallen across the path, and I grunt as her feet touch the ground again. I remember the first time she made a jump over the stream in the meadow, back in the early days of our afternoon rides, when she sent me flying over her neck and into the dirt. Elrond complained about having to pick the leaves out of my hair that night, although he did it with a smile. That I can not only stay on her back when she jumps, but now also do so comfortably says how far we’ve both come as horse and rider.

She slows to a trot as the trees begin to grow thin and the trail narrows. I can feel her breaths, heavy and long, between my knees, and she slows even more to a walk over the increasingly stony path. It is just as well; the terrain here is steeper, more treacherous. I am tempted to turn us back now. With all it has been raining, I worry about the possibility of landslides. Star-Sailor seems to sense my hesitation and pins her ears back as she forges onward. At least she is confident in our abilities.

“Fine, but if we die, it’s on you.”

She simply snorts back at me, and we continue onward and upward. Still, I am watchful for falling rocks, even after we pass the cliff face and the road widens out again. The trees are thinner up here, meaning there is less to hold the earth in place, especially after so much rain.

But nothing happens.

The only sounds to be heard are the twitter of birds in the boughs above us and the distant roar of the waterfalls in the valley. What few pines remain are eventually replaced with stringy shrubs, and we crest the ridge that marks the end of the trail to see all of Imladris stretched out before us. The waterfalls that, from the valley, seemed so massive are dwarfed from the mountain ridge on which we stand. Even after her sprint across the meadow and the ensuing climb up the rest of the mountain, Star-Sailor seems barely winded, although she is happy to stand in the sun and let me watch the goings-on below to my heart’s content.

I could stay up here forever.

The golden afternoon sun shines down on the valley, painting the spray from the waterfalls in bright rainbows that seem to shimmer in the breeze. And as the afternoon fades into evening, Star-Sailor grows impatient, pawing at the ground beneath us as I stare transfixed at the shining visage of my son’s holding. Sometimes I forget how beautiful it is, after days of being cooped up indoors because of this or that, but I could all too easily lose myself to time watching everything from up here. I wonder, when my son eventually sails, will he build such a place again in Valinor?

The mare beneath me wickers, nipping at my toes, and I am brought out of my musings to find that daylight is, in fact, fading rather quickly now as the valley fills with ominously dark clouds. I must have spent more time lost in thought than I realized.

With a heavy sigh, I give Star-Sailor a nudge and she turns around to take us back down the mountain. It is slower going in the fading light, especially now that it has begun to rain again, but I would rather hold her back and return home after dark than let her run and risk either of us getting hurt. I feel bad enough for putting us in this situation, I dare not make a decision that could possibly make it worse. I just know that by the time we return, Elrond will be ready to scold me as harshly as I did when he and Elros would—

I feel it before I hear it.

A tremor in the air between the steady patter of raindrops on stone, subtle vibrations from the earth that wind their way up through hoof and bone and flesh to reach me, and seconds later I hear it, rumbling down the mountainside. I give Star-Sailor a swift kick and she launches forward with the speed of a lightning strike, even as thunder rolls in the distance. I do not stop to see how much of the land is sliding down the mountain or where it is coming from, for even taking that small amount of time away from focusing on escape could prove deadly. Better to overreact than underreact now.

Her feet pound into the earth as before, but the tempo is swifter now, a dire symphony of life and escape from death, marked not with the happy bubbling of a stream but of a raging torrent of earth and stone as it flies down the mountain. But the rhythm falters, a beat dropped as a stone tumbles onto the path and strikes Star-Sailor in the leg, sweeping her feet out from under her. She screams as the ground falls away, and she tries in vain to catch herself on liquid stone. I can only gasp when my back slams into the mud, the weight of the mare rolling over the top of me and falling away in mere seconds.

All is drowned out by the roar of the landslide.

* * *

I come to when a puff of hot air is blown in my face.

There is grit in my eyes, and everything hurts, but I am alive and that is more than I had hoped for. It takes some effort to work my hand free to rub the dirt out of my eyes so that I can see, but I somehow manage it. I am dizzy with relief when I see that the air on my face came from Star-Sailor, who is, if nothing else, standing upright. It takes no small amount of effort to extract the rest of myself from the rubble, but the mare waits patiently, even in the rain.

When I free myself and finally have a decent look at her, I feel myself grow cold. She holds her right front foot off the ground, clearly in pain, and in the dim light I can barely make out the blood dripping from a long and jagged gash in her limb. Without a second thought, I peel my shirt off and tear it to strips. It is a poor substitution for a bandage, but it is all I have. The fear in my gut grows when I realize that there is not nearly enough material to even dress the wound. At least she has not broken any bones that I can find.

How am I going to tell my grandson that I nearly killed his prized mare?

Star-Sailor chuffs, nudging me with her head, as if knowing my thoughts are about her. But she is right. We cannot waste any more time in the rain feeling sorry for ourselves.

I go slowly, for my limping companion’s sake, avoiding whatever ground that still appears unsteady as we try to get back on the path. As it happens, we are nearly back to the city gates by the time we find it. Luckily the rain has chased away all but the night watch, and so there are only a few onlookers who gawk at us as we shamefully make our way back to the barn.

_“—have to find them before—”_

The voice falls silent as I throw back the door to the stables.

_“Father!”_

I nearly choke as Elrond rushes forward and embraces me in a bone-crushing hug, the air from my lungs fleeing as the pain in my body makes itself known. Luckily, he releases me before continuing.

_“We were just about to ride out looking for you. Linnien saw you leave with Star-Sailor this afternoon, but when you didn’t come back before the rain started…”_

“There was a landslide.”

I say it without elaborating in the slightest, intent on getting Star-Sailor settled back in her stall so that her wounds can be properly dressed. Now that I can see her in the lamplight, and also now that most of the mud has been washed off by the rain, I can see that the gash on her leg is actually not as large as I had initially thought. I let out a small sigh of relief at the realization.

“Elrond, you don’t by chance have any sutures with you?”

He comes to the gate of the stall, his eyes going wide when he finally seems to put my relative state of undress and the limping horse together. That is when he steps into the hay and starts unwrapping the crude fabric bandages, and both of the twins rush off, probably to find more supplies. I give another sigh of relief, this one bigger, as the realization that everything will be alright finally starts to set in.

Elladan brings a bucket of warm water, and Elrohir brings medicine and sutures and bandages. I lean myself against the wall of the barn, dizzy with relief as Star-Sailor endures their care, standing quietly Elrond closes the weeping laceration and his sons bind the limb with an athelas poultice to ward off infection.

_“Come on, Maglor, you’re next.”_

I grumble, blinking as I’m hoisted to my feet. When did I sit down? Ah well, a little hay to go with the mud caked into my breeches won’t go amiss. Not that I have the energy to care right now.

_“You’re covered in bruises, and I’m wondering if you’ve broken some ribs.”_

I sigh, following Elrond out and back into the house, while the twins see to it that Star-Sailor is fed and made comfortable. At least the rain has stopped.

“If there is a hot bath and some willow tea in it for me, you can poke and prod and truss me up in bandages all you like.”

_“Done.”_

I don’t expect him to actually follow through on the offer, but lo and behold, he does. The bath feels heavenly on my aching body, and I soak in the warm water until it grows cold and leaves my fingertips wrinkly. Elrond has left the promised tea waiting for me on the table in my quarters when I’ve finished, and it is astonishingly still warm. With my towel still wrapped around my waist, I start to work on it, sipping the brew as I shuffle around the room, trying to stretch out the aches that are beginning to creep into my abused body.

The cup is nearly drained, despite its bitter contents, by the time my son returns.

_“Ah, good, you haven’t gotten dressed yet.”_

“I figured it would be a wasted effort.”

I set the empty cup back where I found it.

_“Quite right. If you were caught in a landslide there is no telling what injuries you’ve sustained. Best to be safe with these sorts of things.”_

He starts, understandably, with my head, shining a candle light in my eyes and checking every nook and cranny for possible injuries before moving on to my neck and shoulders, and so on. He says the cut on my bad arm will need stitching, though I don’t even remember it being there. The same goes for the various scrapes and abrasions he insists on bandaging with athelas poultices. Perhaps I was so focused on making sure Star-Sailor was alright that I didn’t notice my own physical state. Or perhaps I struck my head when I fell, and it left me dazed enough not to remember.

At least I haven’t broken any ribs, only bruised a few, much like the rest of me.

_“Try not to pick at your bandages.”_

He chides me, but at the same time gives my hand a gentle squeeze. I’ve tried not to look at him while he worked, both for the sake of his focus and my own embarrassment, but now that I finally meet his gaze I can see naught but worry in his eyes.

“I’ll try not to.”

_“Good. I’ll be by in the morning to change them out.”_

He rises after that, but he stands beside me, his gaze lingering a bit longer, and I feel like I am radiating shame. It was my fault this happened. I should have turned us back at the cliff face, I should have not spent so much time lost in thought along the ridge, I should have found a safer way back down the mountain…

_“Maglor?”_

“Hm?”

He smiles, bringing his hand up to squeeze my shoulder.

_“Whatever happened, whatever events led to you ending up in that landslide… I’m just glad you’re alright.”_

With that, he sees himself out, leaving me in the dim and quiet comfort of my quarters. I quickly change into something comfortable and crawl into bed. The aches of the day have grown somewhat muted, now that the willow has had some time to work, and I certainly feel tired enough to sleep through the next age. But there is still much on my mind that prevents me from falling into reverie so easily, specifically regarding the fact that I do not intend to go trail riding in the rain ever, ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did the content of this chapter arise from the fact that 1. I had a very productive riding lesson today and 2. I can't write anything that doesn't cause Maglor at least a little bit of pain? Why yes, yes it did.


	19. Law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond is practically running himself in circles over this one decision, and Celebrían is having none of it. 
> 
> (Told from Elrond's POV)

The waiting is the hardest part. It would be one thing if I was allowed to aid in the search for my father’s kidnapper, but this is not my realm, and it has been made quite clear to me that this matter is out of my hands. I do not doubt the abilities of the Galadhrim, not in the slightest, but it still leaves me feeling helpless and restless, knowing that that filth is still out there.

At least Maglor appears to be recovering well, resting easily despite the noise I make pacing around the flet like a trapped animal. Celebrían keeps telling me to sit down, and I do, but only for a moment before I am back up again. I think she is beginning to grow as frustrated as I am, if only because I will not sit still. Or perhaps it is because I have been keeping my sword within arm’s reach at all times. She has already voiced her displeasure over that.

_“Elrond, this isn’t the First Age. Put your sword away.”_

I did. Momentarily. And only because she threatened to take it from me by force, and I know that she is perfectly capable of doing so. True enough that I can best her in a contest of strength, but she has a woman’s cunning, and was raised to know how to use it as well. She has already swiped it from me once when I fell asleep, and I spent half the next morning turning the place upside-down looking for it.

The sour look on her face when I eventually found it said all I needed to know.

I don’t dare leave the flet. Not with Maglor still so vulnerable, and especially not with Fêrion still a threat. I expect today will pass much like the previous days, waking up and tending to my father’s needs before setting off to pace through the living room until supper time, after which Celebrían will try to lure me to bed with a massage before resorting to threats—

The sudden knock at the door has me leaping over furniture to reach it before my wife does. She rolls her eyes as I open it just a sliver to see who it is, keeping one hand on my sword at all times.

_“Lord Elrond.”_

It is only one of the Galadhrim, but my posture hardly changes at that realization.

“Yes?”

_“Lady Galadriel requested that you be informed of Fêrion’s capture. He was returned to Caras Galadhon earlier this morning.”_

I almost fling the door open and push past him immediately, but the death grip my wife suddenly has on my hand puts a stop to that far too quickly. The abruptness of her grasp is enough to leave me in stunned silence as she steps forward.

_“Thank you for telling us. We will be discussing the matter further tonight at dinner with my parents.”_

“We will?”

I receive no answer, but the scout salutes and leaves as Celebrían waves him off. As soon as he is out of sight, I am dragged back into the flet while my wife shuts and locks the door behind us. I give her a rather confused look, and she wastes no time in dragging me over to the sofa and shoving me down into the cushions. I frown.

“Celebrían, what are you—”

_“Elrond Peredhel, son of Maglor, son of Eärendil, Lord of Imladris and father of my children, you are going to listen very closely and do exactly what I say, understood?”_

My whole body tenses. There are only two instances in which I have known her to take this tone with me, the first being in matters of state that require a strict hand and impartial judgement, and the second being in the bedroom. Somehow I doubt this instance falls under the second category.

“Understood.”

She folds her arms in front of her and scowls at me as I cower under her gaze.

_“First you are going to give me your sword. No, there will be no arguing on this. Then you are going to sit there, quietly, I might add, while I go to the kitchen and get you a cup of tea and you are going to drink it. All of it. After that you are going to lie down and have a nap before my parents come for dinner.”_

“Celebrían—”

_“NO.”_

I stop and immediately fall into silence as she strikes me across the face.

_“Did I give you permission to speak?”_

I shake my head meekly, rubbing the stinging flesh of my cheek.

_“Good. Now, let’s get on with this shall we? First things first: I will be taking that sword of yours.”_

With trembling fingers, I unlatch the buckle securing the blade to my belt, and reluctantly pass it over to my wife’s waiting hands. I keep my eyes cast on the floor near her feet, knowing that she won’t hesitate to strike me again if I displease her. As much as I want to completely disregard her ire and snatch my sword back from her, I also would rather not walk around Caras Galadhon painted in bruises.

_“Very good.”_

Her tone is patronizing as she plants a kiss on my forehead, but that little bit of praise also feels like a sunbeam on my soul. Ever since the hunt for Fêrion started, I’ve felt so strung out, like some sort of crazed beast trapped in a cage…

A warm mug is pressed into my hands and it makes me wonder how long it took her to make the tea. I sip the steaming liquid as her fingers trace the tips of my ears, sighing heavily when the thick, heavy sweetness hits my tongue. It leaves me smacking my lips and I pull my face into a grimace.

“You put a sleeping draught in this.”

_“Wrong. I only put half a sleeping draught in it.”_

I can hear the smile in her voice without having to look up. Her hands have moved from my ears to the back of my neck and shoulders, pressing into the tight muscles there and working out the knots.

“You know I don’t appreciate that. The tainted tea, I mean.”

Instantly, her soft tone is replaced by one far more commanding.

_“But you are going to drink all of it anyway.”_

I have another sip of the annoyingly sweet tea, grumbling under my breath as I do.

 _“Elrond, love, you are exhausted and paranoid. You haven’t slept through the night for days, and every time you stalk past me I can feel your_ fëa _absolutely vibrating with anxiety and it is utterly maddening. I know you’re scared, and upset, but Maglor is healing and soon Fêrion will be brought to justice, and right now I think the best thing for you to do is take the afternoon to catch up on your sleep.”_

If there was more to the conversation, I do not remember it.

The next thing I am aware of are fingers running through my hair, occasionally scratching along my scalp as they pass over it, and voices talking softly nearby. One is Celebrían, and my sleep-addled brain takes far too long to deduce that the other two voices likely belong to Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. Although… hadn’t she said they would come by for dinner? Surely it couldn’t be that late already.

_“Elrond? Time to start waking up, love.”_

I sigh when she places a kiss at my temple, giving her a tired smile as I blink the sleep out of my eyes. I feel… rested. Pleasantly so, even. Perhaps she was right, and I did need to catch up on sleep. Celebrían sits beside me on the sofa, a soft look on her face as she watches me stretch and sit up.

“Good… afternoon?”

_“Not quite, love. Its nearly dinner time. My parents are already here. We’ve been waiting for you.”_

Now that is enough to jar some wakefulness into me, cutting through even the remnants of the sleeping draught. The fuzzy drowsiness still clings to the edges of my mind, but my immediate embarrassment at them having to wait for me to wake up shakes most of it off.

“Apologies. I hadn’t meant to sleep so long.”

_“Fret not, Elrond. You looked like you needed the rest.”_

It is Celeborn who speaks, his eyes soft as he sits beside Galadriel at the table, both watching me as I rise to my feet. The table is already set with an array of food, and I shuffle over to join them, with Celebrían trailing right behind me. I sigh as I settle into the chair between my wife and her father, and we tuck in to the fare laid out before us.

“So… what did I miss while I slept?”

_“Not much. Maglor came out for a while looking for a snack. I helped him slice up an apple and then sent him back to bed when he was finished. We were just discussing Fêrion’s fate when you started to stir.”_

In less than a second, my appetite vanishes.

“Oh.”

Celebrían’s hand finds its way to my knee, and gives it a squeeze before her mother speaks up.

_“Celeborn will be overseeing the judgement of the guard who pushed Maglor from the flet, considering the Galadhrim ultimately answer to him. I thought it would be appropriate for Fêrion, who seems to think he is a healer, to have his crimes judged by one of the finest healers I’ve ever known.”_

“Oh? And how does your chief healer feel about that?”

Her tone is unamused when she answers.

_“I was talking about you, Elrond.”_

“Oh… I am… flattered that you would think of me as such.”

My words are slow, and I push the food on my plate around with my fork. I am probably thinking far too much about what her statements imply. That she thinks so highly of me in the first place is astonishing, but she would place the fate of one of her own people in my hands? Not only does that show an enormous amount of trust in my judgement, but it places a me in a position of power that I almost feel like I do not deserve.

_“You seem to be doing a fair bit of thinking there, love.”_

I give my wife what I hope is a reassuring smile. Galadriel continues before we even break eye contact.

_“I care not what you do with him. Have him imprisoned, no, executed for all I care. Do it yourself if you like. His actions have been nothing short of reprehensible, and whatever you choose for his fate will be far too kind. Maglor may have done some horrible things in the First Age, but that is in the past. These days, he is my cousin and your father before all else.”_

_“The pair of them will be tried tomorrow evening. You have until then to decide what you want to do with him.”_

Celeborn’s no-nonsense interruption is welcome after his wife’s tirade.

After another moment of fighting with my food, I give up and set down my utensils, my fingers steepled in front of me as I think. What sort of penance would even be appropriate? I suppose I should probably wait to hear what he says in defense of himself before I pass judgement.

The rest of the evening continues without remark. Meaningless discussions are had, and I barely listen, lost in thought. There is too much on my mind, and I cannot even begin to focus on where the conversation goes. When Celeborn and Galadriel leave, I am grateful for the sudden quietude in the flet. I briefly wake my father up for some medicine I should have given him earlier, had I not been asleep at the time, and afterward promptly head to bed myself.

I sleep better than I have in days.

* * *

Everything is in order.

Celebrían has taken Maglor to stay with her mother for the evening. I do not like having him out of my sight, but I know that there is no safer place for him in these woods than by her side. My wife will return, once my father has settled down, and then we will both go and meet with Celeborn to see that justice is served.

In the meantime, I must make myself presentable.

I brought plenty of formal clothing with me, and although it is perfectly suitable for the occasion, a trunk containing several pieces of armor was delivered to the flet earlier in the day with a note from Galadriel. Even if I do not particularly care for the notion, she apparently thinks it would be better if I appeared more “intimidating”. I would rather wear my own steel, but the pieces she’s sent fit well, or at least well enough to achieve the desired effect. At the very least my sword no longer looks out of place on my belt.

_“My, don’t you look serious. I thought Fêrion was going to be judged by Elrond the healer, not Elrond the warlord.”_

I sigh, and turn to see Celebrían standing in the doorway, a mischievous grin on her face. The expression is contagious, and soon I am smiling too.

“Blame your mother. She sent the plate.”

_“I believe it. Have I ever told you how dashing you look in a full set of armor?”_

She crosses the room in a few strides and rests her hands on my shoulders, her gaze wandering up and down and her grin growing ever wider.

“Only every time you see me in it. Sadly you’ll have to wait to rip it off until tonight, my love.”

_“Such a shame.”_

She pouts, and I plant a kiss on the corner of her mouth, the kind that is quick and soft now, but leaves the promise of more to come later. It is more than enough to bring back her smile.

“We probably shouldn’t keep Celeborn waiting any longer than we already have.”

_“Oh please, my father has the patience of a saint. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind another half hour…”_

“Celebrían…”

_“Please?”_

“Just… wait. I promise, when we’re finished with tonight’s business we can lie together for as long as you like, but right now we need to take care of Fêrion.”

_“I suppose you’re right.”_

She sighs, pulling back from me ever so slightly, and I take her hand in mine as we set out the door. The walk there is thankfully short, or at least it feels that way. My mind is far too occupied with considering what the ultimate outcome of this trial will be to think too much on my surroundings anyway.

We are the last to arrive, it seems. Celeborn already stands upon the edge of the dais, his expression nothing short of severe as he glowers down at the accused. Both Fêrion and the guard responsible for pushing Maglor off the platform are kneeling on the ground, their hands bound in front of them. The guard at least has the decency to look ashamed, whereas his compatriot still holds his head high with pride, attempting to meet Celeborn’s gaze as an equal, despite his submissive position on the ground.

I take my place beside Celeborn on the dais, and my wife stands just behind me and to the side. He greets me wordlessly with a nod, and sets immediately to work. I do not pay too much attention to the proceedings, for I trust his judgement, and still have far too much on my mind to spare a moment of focus for anything other than the elf before me.

He looks… smug. Perhaps he’s already come to terms with the fact that his fate is no longer in his own hands, and is just trying to maintain enough dignity to keep himself upright. Or, more likely, he still believes he has a chance to come out of this on top. I cannot imagine what he must be thinking right now.

_“—stripped of rank and responsibility, to live in servitude and confinement until it is deemed that you have properly atoned for your crimes.”_

I cannot help but think it a light penance for shoving my father, possibly to his death, but perhaps there is more to it than I know. I would not have put it past the scum before me to bribe the guard into action. Silence has fallen over the hall, and I know that they are waiting on me, now. I let out a small, shaky sigh before I begin.

“Fêrion, you stand accused of kidnapping, assault, and attempted murder. You have claimed before me the title of surgeon, a healer, but you have caused naught but harm to come to my father, poisoning him and holding him against his will without regard for the injuries he had already sustained, whilst inflicting more of your own. No evidence beyond the testimony of your victim is necessary for you to be deemed guilty and have judgement passed without question, but I will allow you to speak in defense of your actions before my decision is made final.”

Silence falls again, and I swear I can hear quiet chuckling from the elf before me. There is a fey light to his eyes as he addresses Celeborn, who still stands at my side.

_“Is this the best you can do, Celeborn? Allowing me to be judged by this half-breed imposter? The one who calls himself “lord” over a backcountry ditch in the mountains? I expected better of you.”_

I can feel Celebrían tensing behind me, and I hope that the hand I subtly hold out in her direction is enough to keep her from rushing forward as the fool continues to run his mouth, now addressing me directly.

_“You have no place at a seat of judgement, Peredhel. What are you going to do, execute me? I bet you don’t even have the stones to do it, to kill me and break your healer’s oath. “First do no harm,” isn’t that how it goes? You’re no better than that Fëanorian pet you keep, kinslayers and oathtakers, all of you! Go back to your ditch with your traitorous father and roll in the mud like the mutt you are. Your family has no honor, and neither do you.”_

His spit barely has the time to touch my boots before my sword leaves its scabbard, flashing in the dying light of the evening in a wide arc before me, slicing through skin and blood and bone without a sound. The air itself is ringing, or perhaps it is only my ears, as Fêrion’s head separates from his shoulders as the rest of his body slumps to the side, spilling blood across the platform in a smattering of red paint. It is messy, and I find myself unable to look away. I feel pity for whoever has to clean up after me, but at the same time…

Celeborn’s hand rests on my shoulder, and he offers me a rag with which to clean my sword. Once the blade is cleaned and put away, my wife comes up beside me, and it brings a smile to my face when she leans in to kiss my cheek.

_“I halfway hoped you might run him through before he finished speaking.”_

“I thought I would at least give him a chance.”

The softness in my own voice surprises me, and I am relieved when Celebrían takes my hand and begins leading me down the steps and away from the carnage I’ve caused. I can hear Celeborn barking orders to have the mess cleaned up, and I lean my head against my wife’s shoulder, seeking comfort in her presence.

I am… disappointed that it had to come to this. I know that I am no kinslayer, despite my choice to end Fêrion’s life. In my heart I want to think that everyone has the potential for redemption. But I also know that I am in a position where I must also consider the safety of those who rely on me, beyond just my family and those immediately around me. The decisions I make, even here in Lothlórien, have the potential to affect everyone in Imladris. What would have happened if I had let Fêrion live? What if my decision to show mercy resulted in more people coming to harm by his hand? What if he came to Imladris, and tried to finish what he started with Maglor?

No, the more I think about it, the more I am sure of my decision.

It will be far better for Fêrion to find his redemption within the relative safety of Mandos.


	20. Afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much like he has before, not only with little peredhil, but also with his younger brothers, Maglor takes on the role of father to the fatherless.

How fitting that it is raining. As if the news is not dreary enough, now the skies must pour forth their own tears to add to our own. I stand with my son under the eaves for now, eagerly watching the paths leading into the valley for any sign of my grandsons approaching through the thick mist. We received word earlier in the week of their coming, although we knew it would be several days before they arrived. I was shaken awake very early this morning, the moment when Elrond sensed they had passed the borders of his realm.

That was several hours ago.

Worry eats at my heart. I do not pretend to understand the significance of the visitors they bring with them, but if the rate of Elrond’s pacing can be used as any indication, their arrival is long past due. I catch his arm as he passes me yet again, and I try to give a sympathetic smile as he meets my eye.

“I am sure they are fine, Elrond. If they are traveling with women and children as you said, then that will slow their progress, yes?”

_“It is only one woman and one child.”_

His words are short, but there is no bite to them. He is afraid, not angry.

_“I’ve told you before that it is vital that they be kept safe. I am halfway tempted to ride out myself—”_

_“You’ll do no such thing.”_

Erestor’s arrival is heralded by his level-headed comment. His arms are laden with several blankets and towels, and he gives Elrond an unamused glance before continuing.

_“Your sons are already with them, and you will do them no good by rushing out and risking your own safety simply for the purpose of sating your curiosity.”_

My son huffs irately, but stills his pacing, at least for the moment. He is still nervous, and I keep my hand on his shoulder to keep him from rushing off, especially once we spot the riders slowly materializing out of the mist.

“Be still, Elrond, let them at least get to the courtyard before you ambush them.”

It earns me another irritated huff.

Time crawls as they ride in, seemingly at a snail’s pace. Elladan is in front, his horse caked in mud and clearly tired, an extra rider clinging to his back and clutching a wailing child to her chest. Behind him is Elrohir, his own mount in a similar state, leading a badly limping palfrey by the reins. Finally, I let go of Elrond’s shoulder and he rushes forward to meet his sons. His voice is frantic as he questions Elladan and helps the woman to dismount.

_“What happened?”_

_“Gilraen’s pony slipped in the mud and snapped its leg. Elrohir managed to splint the limb, but it’s been slow going even without towing a lame animal. I told him to just leave her and that we would come back, but he was adamant. You know how stubborn he gets.”_

Elrohir says nothing, just dismounts and leads their small herd of horses into the barn to get cleaned up.

_“Is anyone else hurt?”_

I cannot help but watch the woman, who has remained silent thus far. She seems afraid, but less so than I would have expected for someone who has just had to flee her home with a young child.

_“Only Gilraen. She was on the pony when she slipped, and landed badly on a stone. I do not think anything is broken, but even so…”_

From where I stand under the eaves it is hard to tell, but the woman (Gilraen, I remind myself), does not seem to be in pain. She just seems… tired. And probably for good reason. I doubt the party stopped to rest properly, if I know those twins at all. My son takes her by the arm and guides her up the steps so that she is at least out of the rain, and Erestor is prompt to provide towels to get both her and the child dried off.

I find myself feeling relatively useless, standing by and watching as Elladan swipes one of the towels to get himself dried off as well, until Elrond thrusts the wailing child into my arms. The sudden presence of the toddler holds my full attention for a moment, but when I finally bring my gaze back to my son, it is only to watch as he lifts Gilraen from where she has collapsed on the ground. Without a word, he rushes past me with the woman in his arms, Elladan trotting swiftly behind, leaving Erestor and I standing under the eaves with the screaming toddler.

_“Here…”_

Erestor drapes a soft blanket across my front and over my shoulders as I hold the child against my chest. It takes far too long for my frazzled brain to catch up with what needs to be done, but when it finally does, it feels much like falling back on old habits. Although it has been quite a long time, I have not forgotten how it is to be a father.

“Come along, let’s get you cleaned up.”

I murmur softly to the child under the blanket, bouncing him in my arms as I tote him indoors. He is filthy, and probably hungry and tired. It will be a long afternoon, but I know what to do for a dirty, hungry, sleepy boy. How many times have I done the same for Elrond and Elros when they were little, or even my younger brothers, when my mother and father were too occupied to care?

His cries quiet into soft whimpers by the time I reach my quarters. Erestor still trails behind me, surprisingly enough, and I give him a small smile as we both step into the cozy space.

“Sticking around?”

_“Thought I might offer to help. I tried to say something earlier when you set off down the corridor, but you apparently didn’t hear me, if your silence was anything to go by. I wondered if you were lost in a memory, so I kept following anyway.”_

I cannot stop the grimace that makes its way to my face.

“Ah… apologies.”

He waves it off without a second thought.

_“It is nothing. Is there anything I can help with?”_

“Would you mind drawing a bath? I think getting him out of these clothes and cleaned up will do wonders for his mood.”

_“Consider it done.”_

And just like that, he vanishes into the washroom.

I sigh, turning my attention to the sniffling toddler still held against my chest. I shrug so that the blanket falls away from my shoulders, letting it drop in a pile to the floor. I don’t bother to straighten it out, but drop to my knees and pull the child from my chest, immediately setting him on the blanket. His short curly hair is plastered to his skin with mud, much like most of his clothing, making it nearly impossible to undress him. Although not cooperative, at least he has yet to get up from the blanket and run away, or even squirm overmuch. I think he has worn himself out crying.

“There we go, all ready for a bath?”

The only response I get, just as I pull the last of his clothing off, is a drowsy simper. Oh well. I think he is a bit young yet to be speaking with words anyway. Still, I lift him up again, settling him in the same spot against my chest, and carry him off to the washroom. Erestor is just finishing laying out more soaps than I thought I possessed by the time we enter.

_“Are you sure you want to bathe him now? He looks about ready to fall asleep. What if he slips under the water?”_

I smirk, and pass my charge over for him to hold while I shed my own clothing, until naught but my leggings remain. Then I step into the tub, warm water halfway up to my knees, and sit down.

“I forget you’ve never had children in your life. Here, pass him to me.”

The child practically glues himself to me the minute he leaves Erestor’s arms. It is no easy task to get the little one clean, the mud seems to have become one with his skin in some places, but as the layers come off, the individual beneath is slowly revealed. His pale blue eyes are watchful, wary of us, always looking at one of us with just the barest hint of distrust. I cannot blame him, really. He was born into conflict, and even so young he knows not to trust a stranger. I wonder if that will change, once he realizes that he is safe here, or if he will always be like this.

_“This water is filthy, Maglor.”_

Erestor’s voice is at least quiet, though it still seems to startle the child enough that I feel him tense in my lap.

“I am aware. That is what happens when you sit in a bath with small children who are caked in mud. You end up getting dirty too.”

_“You might want a bath yourself, then.”_

“I’ve been through worse. Celegorm was always horrible about this sort of thing. Not only was he perpetually covered in dirt, but I swear that child brought home half the forest in his hair every day. And he _loathed_ bathing. I’m still not quite convinced we actually share the same parents; I’m pretty sure father just found him feral out in the wilds one day and decided to bring him home.”

It is enough to at least get the stoic bookkeeper to chuckle, and he leans back on his heels thoughtfully to appraise our charge.

_“I think that may be as clean as he’s going to get, at least for now. Not to mention that the water is also getting quite cool…”_

“Well grab a towel, then.”

I pass the child off to him, though the amount of clinging he does leaves several red scratches across my chest, and rise from the filthy water to dry myself off as well. My leggings are soaked, and I will need to change them at the very least, but there are more important things to tend to at the moment.

“Do you think we have anything around for him to wear? We can just keep him bundled up in the towel for now, but if I know my son, he will absolutely lose his mind if he sees him running around the house stark naked.”

_“True. If you’ll be alright with him alone for a while, I can see if we have anything stored away that might be appropriate.”_

Once the child is safely back in my arms, Erestor disappears out the door without another word.

Even once we are seated back on the floor, the little one is tense and cautious. He does sit still while I trim his sharp little fingernails, but my heart aches to see how tired he is and know he is too afraid to sleep. No matter how comfortable I try to make him, swaddling him in the towel or even laying him down on the floor so that he can sprawl and stretch to his heart’s content.

He reminds me of Elros, in so many ways.

Their first night in Amon Ereb had gone much the same as today has. Both of the boys were absolutely filthy. Elrond had slept through most of it, only stirring when the bathwater crept into his eyes to sting them. Not even the promise of food was enough to rouse him. Elros, though… Elros had been wide awake, staring us down with the same suspicious eyes that this little one in my lap possesses. Even when his brother lay fast asleep, the other twin refused to settle…

I tell myself that this is not Elros, that my other son is long dead now, but in spite of that I still begin to hum a soft and familiar tune, one so attached to the memory of my boys and their many restless nights in Amon Ereb that I cannot separate them no matter how hard I try. The melody stays soft this time, thankfully. My hand moves gently over the toddler’s back as he yawns, leaning more heavily against me. I cannot help but smile. There is nothing to the sweet lullaby but soft notes and gentle harmonies, no undercurrents of power surging up through the tune unbidden, bolstering it against my will. Only music.

It has its intended effect. The little one settles with a sigh, and I watch his piercing blue eyes flutter shut. He even looks like Elros, I realize as he finally falls asleep. I shake my head, trying to banish the image of my lost son in the place of this child. I do not need such memories to distract me now.

_“How are things?”_

Erestor’s voice is soft, but I still raise a finger to my lips, and he nods when he realizes our charge is finally getting some much-needed rest.

_“I couldn’t find him anything to wear, but I did find Elrond while I was out. He said Gilraen is fine, just fatigued. She should recover after a few days of rest.”_

“Good.”

I sigh with no small amount of relief. While I would not hesitate to continue caring for this little one if he needed me, I feel far too old and far too tired to raise another son. He is still young enough to need his mother, and so I am grateful that she will likely recover.

“So, does he have a name? If I remember correctly, Elrond mentioned they would be staying with us for a while, at least.”

_“Yes, that is correct. He… does have a name. But we must not use it, for the time being. There are many who would see his line ended, and so it will be safer for him to have a false name while he is here.”_

“Has one been chosen for him already?”

He nods, unsurprisingly.

_“Estel.”_

I smile and shake my head, watching the little one sucking on his thumb as he sleeps. It sounds like something my son would come up with.

“Estel it is, then.”


	21. Breakout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, "that fool from the Greenwood" mentioned in the last chapter of Return to Life had more insidious intentions than we thought.

“You… excuse me?”

_“I’m here to rescue you. Come now, my lord, we have to get you out of here.”_

I give the elf an utterly befuddled look. He stands from where he was previously sitting across from me at the table in my quarters, and pulls a sheathed dagger from the satchel by his side. He holds the blade out to me, gesturing wildly.

“You cannot be serious.”

_“I am very serious, Lord Maglor. Your son is practically holding you hostage here, when there are many of us across Middle Earth who are still loyal to your house. Given the chance, we would see the Noldor have a high king once again.”_

That statement combines with the feeling of the dagger’s leather-wrapped hilt being pressed into my palm to force my heart to drop straight out of my chest. Everything about this feels wrong, like the shrill cry of a flute in a soft lament or the stench of death in a kitchen. I do not know which is more concerning: That this elf, and apparently others like him, would see me take up the mantle of the High Kingship, or that he has just given me a knife and is now dragging me out the door.

While Maedhros was held captive, I was the closest thing we had to a king. I was the second eldest, the one everyone deferred to in my brother’s absence, the one who was expected to lead and make decisions. Those thirty years were utter agony, not knowing whether he lived or died, wanting so badly to storm Angband and rescue him but being afraid of how many more lives would be lost in the process. And so, I waited. For thirty years I waited, and did nothing. In the end of course, it was Findekáno who brought him back, the ambitious little magpie, always weaving shiny things into his hair and going behind whatever authority he had to in order to get things done…

The kid made a far better king in the sixteen years he wore the crown than I ever would have in twice that time.

My grasp tightens around the hilt of the dagger in my hand. Somewhere along the way it has lost its sheath, and now glints menacingly in the sunlight with every window we pass in the corridor. My heart nearly leaps out of my chest every time, swearing up and down that I can see flames reflected in the blade, but when I look closer I see only the windowpane. I can feel myself begin to tremble, and I close my eyes if only so that I don’t have to see the imagined reflections of burning cities and ruined lives, so many ruined lives. Hidden in the squeak of a door on old hinges is the cry of innocents slaughtered in the streets while their homes are torn apart. Concealed in the crimson curtains framing each window are bloodied corpses of elves who should not have died but did anyway because any who stood in our way were just as guilty as those who withheld our birthright from us—

_“Lord Maglor?”_

I shudder at the voice that brings me back to the present. We are in the stable. I can smell the horses and when I open my eyes I can see the roan yearling I’ve been helping Elrohir train looking at me from his stall with sad, round eyes. The elf who brought me here is already saddling a bay mare as I look around in confusion. Why has he brought me to the stable?

_“Come on, we need to be going, quickly, before anyone notices!”_

“Hey!”

When he reaches for my wrist, I pull back sharply, dropping the dagger like a hot coal, like the Silmaril that burned me millennia ago. The elf frowns, and I feel like I am moving through molasses as I turn and try to flee. I can only manage two steps before his hand closes around my wrist and I am dragged up onto the back of the mare as she charges out of the barn. I am faced with the choice of holding on for dear life or falling off and risking a deadly kick to the head.

I cling desperately to the elf’s back.

“Have you lost your mind?!”

He does not give me an answer, only spurs the mare onward, ever faster, not even allowing her to slow when she starts to pant and heave with exhaustion. I think he knows that I will try to jump off if he lets her rest. Only once we are across the Bruinen and beyond the borders of my son’s realm does he finally let the mare drop into a trot, and only draws her to a halt once we are deep in the lowland pines, just on the edge of a clearing where he seems to have set up camp.

_“Do you have him?”_

The voice comes from a tent, and I feel myself pale when another elf emerges from it. They have me outnumbered.

_“Yes. He only barely put up a fight.”_

As soon as the horse stops, I am on my feet and scrambling away from them as fast as I can, despite the lingering numbness in my legs from the hard ride. I know I won’t get far, but I have to at least try. As it turns out, I only make it a few yards before a hand wrests the collar of my tunic and drags me backward. I fall into the dirt, but before I even have the time to orient myself, something hard and blunt strikes the back of my head and I am plunged into darkness.

-

_“I told them I was a musician from the Greenwood.”_

_“Clever.”_

I come to with a groan. They’ve blindfolded me, and my arms are bound to my chest. I am propped up against something solid, possibly one of the many pines around their camp. I think they’ve bound my feet together as well.

_“Don’t scream. There are wolves about, and I would rather not have you attracting them to our camp.”_

The light of their campfire burns my eyes as the blindfold is ripped from my face, but I stay silent.

_“Apologies for our rough treatment, my lord, but I assure you, you’ll see why it was necessary soon enough.”_

It is the elf who was in the tent, and I do not like the way he is speaking. The look on his face appears sympathetic, but while I am bound and helpless before him, I remain unconvinced.

_“I’m afraid we have a long journey ahead of us, my lord. There are a few of us scattered throughout the remaining elven realms, but most of us have started settling in the wilds north of Carn Dûm. The land is mostly empty, ripe for rebuilding your kingdom.”_

My head drops back against the bole of the tree behind me with a dull _thud_.

“You are mad. You are all utterly mad!”

The elf before me gives a sad smile, and his companion shakes his head from where he squats near their campfire.

_“I told you he was confused.”_

“Confused? No, no, no, I think you two are the ones who are confused. What in all of Arda makes you think putting a _Fëanorian_ in a position of power is a good idea?! If anything, you’ll only manage to start another war!”

The two give each other a shared look, and the one in front of me sighs as he sits down, leaving us at eye level.

_“War is already on its way. There are evil things stirring in the east, and the world is growing dark as was in the days of the First Age. We have it on good authority that Gorthaur plans to move again, seeking all of Middle Earth as his prize. Your family has stood against the darkness before. We need you to lead us, Lord Maglor.”_

My head grows light with panic.

_“We need a warlord. If the Last Alliance taught us anything, it is that the blood of this generation is weak as water. Seven years it took them to storm Barad-dûr, when you and your kin laid waste to greater strongholds in a matter of days.”_

I feel like I am going to be sick.

_“You’re the last remnant of your father’s house.”_

_“You are our best hope.”_

“Stop.”

_“No one else can even come close.”_

“I said stop.

_“The world needs a son of Fëanor at the helm again.”_

“I said stop!”

Finally, their badgering subsides, although it leaves me a quivering, tearful mess. I make an uncomfortable noise as I tilt my head back against the tree, shutting my eyes and hoping that this is all some sort of horrible nightmare. I breathe as deeply as I can, hoping to still my hammering heart, and hoping that when I do open my eyes that it is to see the ceiling of my bedroom instead of the boughs of the pine I am tied to.

I have no such luck.

_“You’ll get used to the idea. I promise.”_

The elf stands to his feet, then reaches out to touch my shoulder as he passes by. At least they leave me be for a while after that, muttering to each other in voices too soft to make out. If nothing else, it gives me a moment to calm down, although the panic dissipates far too slowly for me to do much more than overthink my situation.

No one knows I was taken, at least to my knowledge. They will probably only start searching for me when I fail to show for dinner. Then what? They’ll search the house first. Then the rest of the town, probably starting at the stables. If my horse is gone they’ll immediately start looking outside Imladris. But it won’t be. White-Star will still be in his stall, probably picking on that poor yearling… Maybe they’ll catch on to our trail tomorrow morning. Maybe. If I’m lucky.

But I know better than to rely on luck.

Unbidden, a vision leaps to my mind.

I stand, clad in red and gold, before a multitude of soldiers, all armed to the teeth and ready for war. Banners fly, an eight-pointed star on each, fluttering in the wind. The sky is red, smoke rising in the distance beyond snow-capped mountains. There are black stone fortresses built into the mountainsides, and all who pass salute or bow, calling me “Lord” and “King.” There are rings on my hand, a sword at my right hip, a crown upon my brow. I am everything my father would have wanted me to be.

This time, I am actually sick.

The other two don’t seem to notice as I lean over as far as I can and retch into the loam beside me. Bile dribbles down my chin, burning the longer it stays on my skin, but my attempts to wipe it off on my shoulder are largely unsuccessful. All I can do is hope that someone back home puts the pieces together and—

_SNICK_

I nearly jump out of my skin as an arrow embeds itself in the ground near my feet.

_“What was that?”_

One of my captors gets up irately to investigate the arrow. My eyes dart around the clearing, scanning the darkened forest around us and seeing nothing. But as the elf bends over to yank the arrow out of the dirt, things begin to happen very quickly.

A cloaked figure approaches behind the one who remains by the campfire. I cannot see their face, but they swiftly clap a hand over the elf’s mouth, keeping him silent, and hold a knife to his neck. He goes still, raising his hands in surrender as his compatriot finally gets a good look at the arrow. The expression on his face tells me that he and I come to the same conclusion immediately upon seeing the blue and silver fletching.

Imladris.

They’ve found me.

Another figure darts out of the darkness just as my captor is about to turn and shout at his already-subdued partner, similarly silencing and immobilizing him.

_“Move and I’ll slit your throat.”_

Relief floods me as I recognize the voice even before the figure’s hood is dropped, revealing raven-black hair and a noble brow that mirrors those of his brother, who smiles back at me from where he stands binding the hands of the elf by the fire. My grandsons have come for me. My vision grows blurry as I weep with joy.

_“Hey, now, none of that.”_

Elrohir’s voice is soft as he cuts the ropes binding me in place, dabbing at my damp cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt. I can only shake my head when he asks if I am hurt, but I still groan as he lifts me upright. I will probably be sore for a while after being tied in one place for so long. My legs and feet are tingly and numb, and I stumble the first few steps as Elrohir leads me onward.

_“Let’s get you home, grandfather. Elladan, do you have those two under control? Good. Glorfindel will meet you at the gates, remember?”_

I don’t complain when he helps me onto his horse, then promptly climbs on behind me. Normally I might protest that I do not need to be held like a child, but after the day I’ve had, I am quite glad that he’s put me in a position where I can lean back against him and not need to spend too much effort on remaining upright. I am so tired. I do not think I will even want a bath when I get home, even if there is still mud, and possibly vomit, in my hair.

I’m still high on the relief that I won’t have to march under the banner of my house ever again, let alone lead a thousand others beneath those cursed colors. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I know what you're thinking. 
> 
> "Really, Shrimp? ANOTHER kidnapping chapter?"
> 
> Yes. Another kidnapping chapter. I promise it won't be the last, but it might be the last for this series of vignettes. 
> 
> What can I say? I love a good (or mediocre, or even bad) kidnapping.


	22. Wizards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's nothing quite like an unexpected, unfamiliar guest to scare Maglor into taking a bath.

_“How was Estel today?”_

“Restless. I think all these visitors have him terribly distracted, especially since you told him he wasn’t allowed to meet them.”

_“You know why we’re sheltering him—”_

“Yes, I’m aware. But that does nothing to help my frustrations when I ask him to write out his letters and all he does is stare out the window. Do you know what I saw out there when I got up to close the blinds? _Dwarves_ , Elrond. _Naked_ dwarves. In the _fountain_.”

_“… ah. Yes. Well… if it makes a difference, Lindir and I happened upon them as well. Fairly certain he’s been scarred for life now.”_

“He does have a fragile constitution. What ever made you think that having that elf cover Erestor’s responsibilities while he is out of the valley was a good idea? I’m fairly certain that making him play host to this small army of dwarves may leave him so damaged he’ll go west as soon as they leave! And then you’ll be down your minstrel _and_ your bookkeeper.”

_“If that happens, Maglor, you’ll be able to add bookkeeper and minstrel to your newly acquired title of teacher.”_

I groan exaggeratedly, my head lazily turning toward him from where it rests against the back of the sofa. Of course, he is snickering. We are both sprawled out in front of the hearth in his study, exhausted and cranky from the tiring days we’ve each had. I am beginning to think Elrond got the better end of the deal with a handful of dwarves to wrangle as opposed to a single, hyperactive eleven-year-old child. At least he has help.

“If you try to foist more duties on me, I swear… I’m retired! I should be sipping wine in the lap of luxury, not helping you run a small city-state.”

_“Calling it a city-state might be an overstatement.”_

The voice is not Elrond’s, far too feminine, and is accompanied by long, smooth fingernails trailing over my scalp. I don’t even need to open my eyes to know who it is, and with the migraine I’ve been nursing for most of the day, I am not particularly inclined to. The scalp massage, though, seems to help.

“Artanis.”

_“Maglor.”_

“How has Arwen been?”

_“She is well. She’s made several friends among the Galadhrim. I think they’ve even started a knitting club.”_

“Good. And Celeborn?”

_“Still upset with me for singlehandedly ruining our diplomatic relations with the Greenwood.”_

“It sounds like he has a right to be.”

_“Thranduil is a self-absorbed ass. And its only gotten worse with time.”_

Elrond and I both snort. She isn’t lying, by any means. I’ve only met him once, but my impressions of Thranduil were uninspiring to say the least. His son, however, was much more tolerable.

_“Is everyone here?”_

I let out a displeased noise when Artanis stops her scalp massage to respond to my son.

_“Not yet. We are still waiting for Saruman.”_

_“If he hasn’t arrived by now, he probably won’t until tomorrow. You know how he is.”_

_“Yes…”_

I do not even pretend to know or care what they are talking about. Elrond has mentioned Saruman’s name to me before, but it was in passing, and I know nothing of him beyond that. I only chuff out a sleepy response when Artanis bids us goodnight and turns in herself, leaving a parting kiss in my now-tangled hair. It makes me smile.

I am grateful for the ensuing quietude, enjoying the silence between my son and I as I rest my eyes. We are not, unfortunately, left alone for long. Before I can even so much as yawn, my son is greeting someone else.

_“Mithrandir.”_

Mithrandir. Grey wanderer. Clearly an _epessë_. Who in their right mind would name their child that? It makes them sound old.

_“Lord Elrond.”_

And his voice certainly sounds old. Strange. It lacks the melodic lilt characteristic of most elven voices, making it sound much more mannish than I would have expected, but it still carries undercurrents of something finer, gold and brilliant white, something powerful. To be honest, I find it both intimidating and intriguing.

_“Will you sit awhile with us?”_

I hear him grunt, and I think he sits beside my son. He must be a man of Gondor, I imagine, with a name so blatantly Sindarin as ‘Mithrandir’. But that still doesn’t explain why his voice sounds so bizarre, this strange mix of mannish and elvish, coarse and refined all at once, and—

_“Kanafinwë, did your father not teach you to greet guests when they enter the room?”_

My heart drops out of my chest, and in the same instant I sit straight up, my eyes flying open and the last vestiges of drowsiness dissolving in lieu of panic. Sitting across from me, indeed right next to Elrond, is what I can only describe as an old man, grizzled and bearded, dressed plainly in grey. But his eyes… I doubt anyone else, besides perhaps Artanis, would notice. There aren’t many others still alive who could even see it, let alone those who would recognize it.

Reflections of the Flame Imperishable.

He has seen the face of Ilúvatar.

The question then leaps to my mind: Maia, or Vala?

I mean to speak, I really do, but my tongue is quite tied, leaving me to stare dumbly at the old man before my son sighs and elbows him in the ribs.

_“Leave him be, Mithrandir. He is jumpy enough these days without your assistance.”_

The Maia huffs, crossing his arms and leaning back in the sofa to mirror Elrond’s posture. It is clear he has spent no small amount of time living outside of Valinor, just based on his conduct alone. He mirrors the behavior and mannerisms of a mortal nearly flawlessly, and if I did not recognize the light in his eyes he may have even fooled me. Even Melian, after spending all that time in Doriath among the Sindar, still retained the air of regality that reminded all that she was a _Maia,_ and that she was _above_ them—

_“You can stop staring now, father.”_

I sigh, and at least manage to look at something other than the Maia in front of me, but am unable to return to my previously relaxed position. I am no longer tired, or at least not tired enough to disregard how unnerved I still am by this… Mithrandir. The two are chatting now, casually as if they’ve known each other for years. I suppose it’s possible; I try not to insert myself unduly in my son’s affairs, so it is quite reasonable that I have simply not met him yet. Though I would hope Elrond might have at least mentioned his existence to me.

I sit in tense silence as they chat about the dwarves that have been visiting. I listen intently, sitting on my hand to keep from fidgeting. At least I only have one of those to police these days. Apparently, this Maia was the one who brought the dwarves into the valley in the first place, so in a way I suppose I have him to thank for the chaos of the past few days, and the migraine that arrived as a result of it. As much as I would like to speak up and blame him for it outright, I at least like to think that I have better control over my tongue than Caranthir, and so I remain quiet.

_“You look as though you are sitting on a porcupine, Kanafinwë.”_

I stifle the irritated growl in the back of my throat only a moment after it erupts, but I still make enough noise for Elrond to sit up and glare at me. After clearing my throat, my voice trickles out, soft and even.

“Please do not call me that.”

The Maia lifts an eyebrow, his face seemingly skeptical.

“I have spent a very long time trying to distance myself from the rest of my family. I would rather not be reminded of them every time you want my attention.”

He nods, humming thoughtfully for a moment.

_“Maglor, then?”_

“Maglor is much preferred, yes.”

_“Well then, Maglor, you look as though you are sitting on a porcupine.”_

My son sits forward even more, and I roll my eyes. He looks ready to step between us at a moment’s notice, like he thinks the tension in the room may incite us to violence. I dearly hope it does not come to that, for I have no doubt that two elves against one Maia would turn out horribly for us.

“Have you thought perhaps that might be due to the fact that I find your presence entirely unnerving?”

He erupts, then, not with violence, but instead with laughter that is suddenly loud enough it startles my son off of his precarious perch and sends him tumbling to the floor. I can only shift uncomfortably as Elrond peels himself off the rug and returns himself to the sofa.

_“Unnerving, you say? Well, I think it would do you a great bit of good to be unnerved every once in a while, lest you grow too comfortable for your own good.”_

Now it is his turn to elbow Elrond in the ribs, although my son fails to catch on to Mithrandir’s good mood. I myself can only sigh and shrug, and try to ignore the sour feeling that I’ve been made fun of. Like all the Maiar I’ve ever met, this one, too seems to speak in riddles.

After a long, awkward silence, I stiffly rise from my seat.

“I… probably ought to retire. This headache is not getting any better on its own.”

_“Do you need a—”_

“No, Elrond, I do not need anything for pain. Only a full night’s sleep.”

With that, I shuffle out of the room as quickly as I can, and only once I am past the hallway and nearly before the door to my bedroom does the tension finally ease out of my body. I know that it will make me sore tomorrow, having the musculature of my shoulders and neck wound so tight, but there is little I can do about it now. I do, however, believe a bath to be in order.

I make straight for the washroom as soon as my bedroom door is shut, and immediately turn on the faucet to fill the tub. Before I’ve even fully undressed, the room is filled with steam from the hot water, and I pause for a moment to add some of the lavender salts that Arwen sent me from Lothlórien. It makes the air heavy and fragrant, and as soon as the last shreds of clothing leave my body I am stepping into the bath and sinking in up to my shoulders.

I still do not allow myself this luxury nearly as often as I should, according to Elrond. How many times has he told me that I smell like an Orc and need to bathe? Far too many to count, honestly. I’ve gone so long without the option of a bath, it seems wasteful to have one more than once every month, although according to my son even once a week is not frequent enough. ‘Imladris won’t run out of hot water or soap if you have a bath’, he’s told me on more than one occasion.

The heat that seeps into my neck and shoulders brings a sigh from my lips, and I decide that I am happy enough to soak for a while and think. I cannot decide how I feel about Mithrandir, or the apparent friendship he shares with my son. It feels like a bad memory come to life, a relic of Aman come to stay for the week in our house, and although Elrond seems perfectly fine with it, I cannot help but be nervous. He is holding back his power, for certain, but that doesn’t make him any less dangerous. At any moment he could let loose and—

I don’t know. I just don’t know. Maybe I’m overreacting. Probably. I don’t know. More likely he reminds me of that time so long ago when everything was simpler, when I still had a family that cared about me, and all was good and bright in the world, and there was no never-ending battle with dark powers, no evil temptations slinking in through the shadows. Maybe that is why my chest aches when I see this Maia with my son; I miss what was and what I know will never be again.

Our oath bound us to everlasting darkness if we failed, and there is no question in my mind that we failed, the Silmarils now lost eternally to fire, sea, and sky. I will probably never see my brothers or my father or my nephew ever again. Even if I’ve tried to separate myself from them in this new life I’ve been gifted, I still miss them. I don’t even know if I’ll be allowed to return to Aman.

Elrond has mentioned several times that, when the time comes for him to leave, that he wants me to sail with him, but there is no small part of me that worries still. Will my presence on that ship prevent it from ever reaching its destination? Will we sail completely round the world, unable to find Valinor the same way it is for mortals? Will they have to toss me overboard? I suppose it would be fitting: I should have drowned with the sinking of Beleriand.

I sigh, breathing in the sharp tang of lavender, and reluctantly begin to wash up. As Erestor would say, ‘These are bridges to cross when we come to them, not before’. Still, I cannot help but wonder at what is to come, and if in the end I will be eternally sundered from the little family I have left in spite of this “second chance” I’ve been given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ya just love it when you have a grand idea for a chapter, and then you realize it won't work because of something you already wrote, so you have to change it, and then you hate it, and then you just let it fester because you don't want to deal with it, and then you finally finish it solely for the sake of getting it done?
> 
> Yeah. 
> 
> I don't.


End file.
